


No More Heroes Anymore

by Anarfea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, BDSM, Bondage, Break Up, Brief Johnlock, Drug Use, Impact Play, Implied/Referenced Animal Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Jealous John Watson, John’s Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Greg, Phone Sex, Pining, Post-Season/Series 04, Season/Series 04, Secret Relationship, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Story: The Adventure of the Norwood Builder, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2020-06-27 21:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19797685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: Sherlock and Greg have carried torches for each other since Greg was married and Sherlock was a junkie waif haunting Greg’s crime scenes. After his divorce, Greg was convinced he’d lost his chance because Sherlock had found John. But now Sherlock and John have had a falling out and Sherlock’s interested in Greg again. Except, Sherlock isn’t who he used to be. He has scars, physical and emotional, from when he went away. And he likes it rough, which makes Greg uneasy. Can Greg find a way to give Sherlock what he needs? Or will he lose Sherlock to John again?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AllTheThings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheThings/gifts).



> “Whatever happened to  
> All of the heroes?  
> All the Shakespearoes?  
> They watched their Rome burn  
> Whatever happened to the heroes?  
> Whatever happened to the heroes?
> 
> No more heroes anymore  
> No more heroes anymore”  
> \-- The Stranglers, “No More Heroes”

1999

“Jesus, Sherlock, what are you doing here! It’s half two in the morning.” Greg opened the door on which Sherlock had been pounding. “Come on, at least get in out of the rain.”

Sherlock stepped across the threshold. He was wearing muddy combat boots, skin tight jeans further plastered to his legs because of the wet, a white t-shirt gone translucent, and a battered leather jacket that was too big for him and was probably either borrowed or stolen. Greg shuffled him out of the sopping wet jacket and hung it in the hall cupboard.

“Your wife’s left you.”

Greg sighed. “Dare I ask?”

“Coat’s missing from the cupboard.”

“Maybe she just went out tonight.”

“And took six pairs of shoes?” He pointed at the half-empty rack containing Greg’s oxfords and trainers. “She’s not coming back.”

“We’re just having a bit of a break.”

“You should let her go. She’s only going to continue having affairs.”

“Sherlock, stop talking about shit you don’t understand. We’ve been together seventeen years. You don’t just throw that away over--”

“She doesn’t respect you.”

Damn if that wasn’t the truth. “Look, why don’t you take a shower. Get out of those wet clothes.”

Sherlock smiled coquettishly and lowered his lashes. “You just want to see me naked, Inspector.”

Was Sherlock actually convinced Greg would take advantage of him in this state or was he just being an arse? “I do not. I have some joggers you can borrow. Change in the loo.”

Sherlock peeled off his wet t-shirt and threw it on the floor. Greg caught a glimpse of track marks when his elbows had stretched over his head. Shit.

He grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “You’re using again.”

“Obvious.”

“Let me see your pupils.” He snatched Sherlock’s chin and tilted his face up. Shrunk to pinpricks. Fuck. “You’re high.”

“Brilliant deduction.”

“Sherlock, why do you do this to yourself?”

“You know why.”

“‘Because you’re bored’ is not a good enough reason.”

“Not just bored, inspector. Dying of tedium. I need cases. Give me work.”

“Not unless you’re clean. You know that.”

Sherlock made an exasperated noise and pulled free from Greg.

“Shower,” said Greg. “I’ll make you some tea.”

Sherlock stomped into Greg’s bedroom, trailing mud behind him.

Greg walked into the kitchen, switched the kettle on, and got some PG Tips out of the cupboard. It was going to be brutal for Sherlock, coming down. Maybe he should keep him here. Sherlock was right, Lorraine wasn’t likely to be back for at least a few days. Probably longer.

The sound of water running through the pipes echoed through the kitchen. Sherlock had actually done as he was told, for once. Greg pulled two mugs out of the cupboard and put a teabag in each. He poured boiling water over them. 

After the tea had steeped, Sherlock emerged from the bedroom wrapped in Lorraine’s bathrobe. It was a pink terry cloth thing, and he looked kind of adorable in it.

Greg slid a hot mug into his hand.

Sherlock took a slow slip. He undid the sash of the bathrobe and let it fall open. He was naked underneath and thin--far too thin. His ribs showed and there was a depression where his stomach should have been. Still, the expanse of pale white skin made Greg’s face heat.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Oh, come on. You know you want me.”

Greg didn’t bother denying it. Instead, he said, “I’m married.”

“Your wife sleeps with other people all the time.”

“You’re high.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t have sex with high people.” He needed to remind himself almost as much as he needed to tell Sherlock.

“I’m not incapable of consent.”

“I’m sure you use so much you feel like you’re sober. But you’re not--you’re not making good choices, Sherlock. And I don’t want to be one more mistake you make.”

“You’re afraid.”

“Of what?”

“You think you want me more than I want you. You’re wrong, by the way.” Sherlock drained his mug of tea.

Greg couldn’t help but watch him swallow. That long, white throat bobbing--

Sherlock set his mug down on the counter and advanced on Greg slowly. “I want you a great deal.”

“I want you too, but that doesn’t mean--”

Sherlock pressed his lips against Greg’s.

Greg’s lips started moving against Sherlock’s, parting to admit Sherlock’s tongue into his mouth. He tasted like stale cigarette smoke. Greg was trying to quit, but he’d smoked tonight after Lorraine left, so he doubted he tasted much better.

He pulled away. “Sherlock.”

“Fine, no kissing.” Sherlock slid down Greg’s body onto his knees, face pressed against Greg’s thigh.

“Oh my God.” Greg looked down. “No, no, no get up now.”

“Are you sure? I’m quite good at this.”

“I’m sure you are. But you’re not doing this with me.”

Sherlock rocked back on his heels and sighed. “You’re so stubborn.”

“That’s the pot calling the kettle black if I ever heard it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“And up.” Greg took a step back and offered Sherlock his hand, pulled him to his feet. He ruffled Sherlock’s hair and pulled his head down, kissing him on the forehead. How he wanted to kiss him on the mouth again, smoke and all. “I’m tucking you into bed.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Go to bed anyway.”

“Only if you spoon me.”

Greg hesitated. This might just be another attempt at seduction, but there was something childlike in Sherlock’s voice which made him say “fine.”

Greg shuttled Sherlock into the bedroom. The sheets were rumpled; he’d been sleeping when Sherlock had banged on his door. He rifled through his drawers and found a clean t-shirt and a pair of grey joggers. “Here.”

Sherlock sniffed.

“I’m not cuddling you unless you’re dressed.”

Sherlock sighed and pulled on the joggers beneath the bathrobe, then dropped it to the floor and pulled on the t-shirt. He flopped onto the bed facedown. On Greg’s side. Of course.

Greg pulled the sheets up over Sherlock’s shoulders. Then he climbed into bed on Lorraine’s side. This was weird. And he was pretty sure Lorraine wouldn’t approve of him sleeping next to Sherlock. But he wasn’t particularly concerned with what Lorraine would or wouldn’t approve of right now.

“Spoon,” Sherlock demanded.

“Do you want to be big spoon or little?”

“Don’t tell me you can’t deduce that.”

Greg sighed and curled towards Sherlock, making a cavity for him.

“Nice to see you’re not entirely stupid,” murmured Sherlock, crawling into the hollow left by Greg’s curved body.

“Watch it,” Greg muttered.

“Tell me about one of your cold cases,” said Sherlock.

“No. Sherlock it’s after three.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Jesus, you’re a prat, you know that? Fine. So there’s this guy, Carruthers, and we know he killed his wife but we can’t prove it….” Greg rambled about the details, waiting for Sherlock to interrupt him with some brilliant solution, but Sherlock was quiet for once. By the time Greg finished, Sherlock was breathing slow and snoring softly. Asleep. Warm in Greg’s arms. He ought to feel horribly guilty about this. He was in his marriage bed with someone who was not his wife. And who was high off his tits. But something about it felt so incredibly right. He pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s curly head. Stale smoke. He inhaled deeply anyway.


	2. I'm Here

Greg was sick and tired of jumping for his phone every time he got a text alert, hoping it was from Sherlock. It was time to accept that the man wasn’t going to return his texts. Sherlock was grieving. Mary and he had been close. Greg hadn’t really understood that. He’d thought they would dislike each other, that Mary would come between Sherlock and John. But Sherlock and Mary had gotten on like a house on fire, and now Mary was gone. Greg had stood by and watched her die, bleeding out on the aquarium floor in John’s arms.

He debated swinging by Baker Street, but it seemed foolish to go over without any idea what he might find there. Sherlock was probably a mess, probably using again, to be honest. It was time to do a little reconnaissance. Should he call Mycroft? Nah. Mycroft might know about Sherlock's comings and goings from CCTV, but he was the last person that Sherlock would confide in. Molly seemed a better bet.

Greg made his way to Bart’s morgue. Molly was in the middle of an autopsy, lab coat on and a protective shield over her face.

“Greg!” She set down her bonesaw and turned to face him. “I still don’t have the test results on the Johnson case.”

“That’s okay. I’m actually here about Sherlock.”

Molly bit her lip. “What’s he done now?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. Have you seen him?”

Molly’s face crumpled. “John sent me over with a message. Sherlock was offering to help with Rosie, and John told me to tell him he’d rather have help from anyone but him.”

“Jesus, that’s terrible. John shouldn’t have sent you to deliver a message like that. It’s not fair to use you as a go-between.”

“I’m used to it. Everyone does. I mean, that’s kind of what you’re doing now.”

“Oh gosh, I didn’t even think of that.” Greg ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, Molls.”

Molly smiled, a little tightly. “It’s all right.”

“How are you holding up?”

“It’s hard. I try to take care of Rosie as much as I can, because John is… bad. He’s drinking too much, for one. To be honest, it’s a lot, for me. I need to work. But I mean, it’s what I signed up for, I guess. I just never….”

“I know.” Greg opened his arms. “Can I give you a hug?”

Molly gestured to her blood-speckled lab coat.

“Don’t care.”

“Okay, then.” She took off her face mask and set it on the exam table. Then she walked up to Greg and into his arms.

He gave her a tight, quick, hug. “I’m sorry Molly. I know you and Mary were close.”

“Not as close as Mary and Sherlock.”

“I know.”

“Go see him, Greg. He needs someone to check in on him.”

“Do you know if he’s using?”

“I haven’t been testing him, if that’s what you’re asking. But you know him. I’d say probably, yes.” She pressed her lips together, and for a moment Greg thought she might cry.

“I just wish I knew what to do. John is just taking this really hard, and I mean, of course he is, his wife died, but… it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault.”

Greg sighed. He’d been there. Watched Sherlock goad Norbury into shooting him, only to see Mary throw herself in between them at the last second. Norbury had pulled the trigger. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault. But he understood why John might think it was. Why Sherlock might.

“John will forgive him in time,” said Greg.

“Will he? I don’t know. I don’t think John ever forgave him for… dying. Sherlock did what he did to save John, and you, and Mrs Hudson. But I think John just…. Well he saw him jump, for one, and I’m sure that was awful, but also, I think he thought Sherlock was off having adventures, without him. He didn’t want to be left behind.”

“Do you know what Sherlock did while he was away?”

“No. He didn’t exactly keep in touch. But he came back… different. Surely you noticed that.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

Molly twiddled with her cuff. For a moment, Greg thought she might say more. Surely if anyone knew where Sherlock had gone while he was away, it was her. But all she said was, “look after him, Greg. Take him on a case. Something.”

“I will.”

* * *

221b was more of a mess than Greg had ever seen it. Multiple containers of takeaway in various states of decay littered the kitchen counter, mixed with beakers containing various foul smelling liquids. Greg made his way through the kitchen into the sitting room. Sherlock lay sprawled across the sofa in his tartan dressing gown. He had at least a four day beard growth and his eyes were bloodshot.

“I brought you some fish and chips.” Greg set the bag down on the coffee table.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Have some chips at least.” Greg opened the bag and took out the paperboard container filled with thick-cut chips. They were still warm. “I got them from that place you like. Chap who gives you extra portions.”

“Still not hungry.”

Greg sat down in the client-chair and picked up the chips. “Well, I am.” He took a bite, licking his fingers, trying to make the food look as appetizing as possible. “These are good chips. I can see why you like the place.”

“Why do you try, Graham?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t pretend to be stupider than you actually are.”

“Look, Sherlock. Everyone knows you cared for Mary. I just wanted to check in on you, make sure you’re okay.”

“I should have died instead of Mary. How can anything possibly be okay?”

“Don’t say that.”

“I never thought…. She’d just had Rosie. I could have imagined her sacrificing herself for her. Or for John. But not for me. I didn’t deserve that.”

“Mary thought you did.”

“Mary was wrong about a great many things.”

“Not this. She saw something in you. Something that made her decide you were worth saving. She gave you the gift of life as much as Rosie. Don’t cheapen it.”

“John won’t let me see Rosie.”

Shit. Way to go bringing that up, Greg.

“I’m her godfather. I promised to take care of her in exactly this situation. And he won’t let me.”

“Grief makes people do all kinds of terrible things. Things they don’t mean.”

“Oh, John means it. I swore a vow. To always protect all three of them. And I failed.”

“You did the best you could.”

“I didn’t! You were there. I egged her on. I thought--” Sherlock tore his fingers through his hair.

“You were stalling for time.”

“I was trying to be clever. To make sure she’d know I won. And I lost. And Mary died because of it.”

“Mary died because Norbury shot her. It’s her fault. It’s always the perp’s fault.”

“What a very policemen-like thing to say.”

“It’s true.”

“You’re looking at only the ultimate action and failing to see the chain of events that lead to it. If you follow them back, I arranged to meet Norbury at the aquarium. I goaded her into firing her gun.”

“It doesn’t work like that. We’re not all just mindless dominos falling down. We have choices. Norbury made hers. So did Mary, for that matter. This is not on you. She wouldn’t want you to think it was.”

“John does.”

“John is wrong.”

“Let’s say you’re right. It doesn’t matter. It won’t make John forgive me.”

“John will come around.”

Sherlock barked a laugh. “It was Mary. You know, the first night that I came back from the dead. I thought it would be brilliant to surprise John. I disguised myself as a waiter at the Landmark. And John--”

John had attacked Sherlock. The Landmark had filed a complaint. As had two other restaurants.

“Mary promised she would ‘talk him ‘round.’ And she did. Now she’s gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I thought she would hate me. All of John’s other girlfriends hated me. But she didn’t. ‘I like you, did I ever say?’ Dying, she said that to me.”

“She cared about you a great deal.”

“I loved her.”

Greg was shocked at Sherlock’s frankness.

“I should have told her. But I didn’t know how. John…. Once he said that we should have gotten married.”

“He was jealous.”

“He didn’t understand Mary and me. I don’t think he ever forgave her either. For lying about her past. We had that in common. Maybe that’s part of why we bonded.”

“I always wondered about that.”

“Mary understood me. And I understood her.”

“She said she shot you.”

“Yeah.”

“I never knew that.”

“Well, it’s hardly something you tell your policemen friends.”

Greg smiled. Sherlock had obliquely called him a friend.

“Why’d she shoot you?”

“I startled her. She was already in Magnussen’s office when I broke in. She didn’t expect to be caught, recognized. And she told me if I took one more step she’d shoot me and I… didn’t listen.”

“Sounds like you.”

Sherlock had a faint smile curling on his lips. Almost fond. He pressed his fingers against his side.

“But John, I don’t think he ever forgave her for that either. Even though I did.”

“You could have died. I remember how close you were. And John was a mess.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“He was. Sherlock, I know he’s being kind of a dick now, but he cares about you, and he will come to realize that none of this was your fault… in time.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. And until he does, if you need a friend, I’m here.”

“I know.”

“Call me.”

“Phone’s dead.”

“That’s an easily solved problem.”

“Is it?”

“Where’s your phone?”

Sherlock pointed at his dressing gown pocket.

“Really?” Greg plucked it out with a sigh. “Charger?”

“In the bedroom.” Greg stood up, knees creaking, and made his way towards Sherlock’s bedroom. Unlike the rest of the flat, it looked immaculate. Unused. The bed was neatly made, and Sherlock’s charger was plugged in to the nightstand next to it. Greg pushed the cable into the phone, watched the battery light come on.

“When’s the last time you slept?” Greg called to the living room.

“Can’t remember.”

“You should come to bed.”

“I thought you wanted me to eat chips.”

“Either would be good for you.”

Sherlock rolled onto one elbow and plucked a chip from the container. “Look, Geoff, I’m eating.”

Greg stepped back into the sitting room. Something about Sherlock lying on his side eating was positively decadent. He remembered reading somewhere that the Romans used to eat lying down.

Sherlock finished chewing and rolled onto his back. “And now I’m sleeping.”

“I meant in bed, Sherlock. That can’t be good for your back.”

Sherlock opened his arms. “Take me.”

Greg stared. Sherlock couldn’t possibly…. “What, to bed?”

Sherlock nodded.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Fine. I’ll sleep here then.”

“Arse.” Greg strode forward and grasped Sherlock’s arms. “Up.”

“Carry me.”

“Nope. Not with my back; you’re far too heavy.”

Sherlock pouted, but he let Greg pull him off the couch and into his arms. He smelled of stale sweat and unwashed body.

Greg put an arm around Sherlock and led him towards the bedroom. It reminded him of John, manhandling a drugged Sherlock into bed after his encounter with Irene Adler. Greg had filmed it on his phone.

Sherlock leaned heavily on Greg, butting his head into his shoulder like a cat.

Greg moved them through the doorway and grabbed a corner of the sheets, turning them down.

Sherlock dropped the dressing gown from his shoulders, revealing a white t-shirt and blue silk pajama bottoms. Greg swallowed. Sherlock flopped onto his face. He’d done the same onto Lorraine’s side of the bed. God that had been ages ago, before Greg’s divorce. Sherlock had been right. Greg should have let her go then, instead of letting the marriage limp along for years and years. But Sherlock himself had been part of the reason that Greg had stayed married so long. He’d told himself he wasn’t going to give up what he had to chase after some younger man. Who probably didn’t even remember Greg holding him in his arms and telling him about cold cases like they were bedtime stories.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Sherlock.

“Can’t you deduce it?”

“I’m a genius. Not a psychic.”

“Nothing, just sort of zoned out a moment.”

Sherlock sniffed, unconvinced.

Greg folded the covers up over Sherlock, tucking them under his chin. “Sleep tight, Sherlock.”

But Sherlock was already sleeping. Even sleeping, he looked tired. His eyes were swollen and his cheeks were puffy. Maybe he’d been crying earlier.

Greg turned around and made his way back through to the living room. He gathered the fish and chips and opened the fridge. Big mistake. A petri dish filled with grey mould had pushed the lid off and was climbing the wall beside it. Gagging, he took the fish and chips with him and let himself out, locking the door behind him.


	3. Don't Give Up

“I just wanted to remind you that this interview is being recorded.” Greg sat across from John in the interrogation room, headache blooming behind his eyes.

“Right. I know.”

“I just want to go over the statement you made at the hospital.”

“Okay.”

“You didn’t see him take the scalpel?”

“Nobody saw him.” John snapped.

“So you didn’t know what was about to happen.”

“Of _course_ I didn’t know.”

“Well, there must have been some build-up. He didn’t just suddenly _do_ it.” Sherlock. Lunged at Culverton Smith. Tried to stab him.

John leaned forward onto his elbows. “Look, I didn’t know he had the bloody scalpel. Culverton’s daughter, Faith, just comes into the morgue and Sherlock was going on about how they’d met before, how she came by the flat. But she said she’d never met him, and Sherlock kept asking ‘then who came to my flat?’ I asked him if he was okay, and all of the sudden he said, ‘Watch him, he’s got a knife.’”

“Who had a knife?”

“Smith. Sherlock said he had a scalpel. But Smith held his hands up, and they were empty, and all of the sudden it was Sherlock with the scalpel.”

“What do you mean, ‘All of the sudden’? You must have seen him take it!”

“I didn’t! He just all of the sudden had a scalpel. And I asked him if he wanted to put it down. And then Sherlock kept yelling at Smith, ‘Stop laughing at me,’ and I told him he wasn’t laughing.”

“Then what happened?”

“Sherlock lunged at him. I wasn’t even thinking, I just grabbed his wrist, disarmed him, and then I slammed him against the wall. I….”

“What did Smith do?”

“I can’t remember. I was worried about Sherlock. I just wanted to…. Eventually two orderlies came in. And they pulled me off him. I remember Smith saying he wasn’t a danger anymore.”

“Thank you, Doctor Watson.” Greg reached for the tape recorder, switching it off. Might as well keep this as to the point as possible. He leaned back into his chair. “Ohh, Christ!” He sighed. “I keep wondering if we should have seen it coming.”

“Not long ago, he shot Charles Magnussen in the face. We did see it coming.”

Greg wished John wouldn’t talk about that. Especially not at NSY. He knew because Mycroft had told him, after Sherlock had told Greg he was leaving for a six month stint of undercover work in Eastern Europe. Mycroft had said that Sherlock had shot Magnussen and he wasn’t coming back.

“We always saw it coming,” John continued. “But it was fun.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” said Greg.

Officer Sanderson came in. “Sir. You probably want to see this.” She set a laptop on the table between them. Greg and John leaned in to watch the screen. It was a news bulletin.

“Harold Chorley reporting earlier today. Mr Smith stated he had no interest in bringing charges.”

Greg wondered if Mycroft hadn’t had a hand in that. He always seemed to swoop in and make all of the consequences of Sherlock’s actions go away. Like with Magnussen. Sherlock had been effectively sentenced to die in Eastern Europe. Greg had even started to mourn him. Again. And then suddenly Moriarty’s face had been everywhere and Sherlock had been brought back to deal with the threat, which never did seem to materialize. Mycroft had surely had a hand in that.

And now, Smith wasn’t pressing charges, even though Sherlock had tried to stab him. Sherlock was convinced he was a serial killer. But there was no evidence.

The newscast cut to Smith in the morgue, talking to a reporter. “I’m a fan of Sherlock Holmes. I’m a big fan.”

John’s brow furrowed.

“I don’t really know what happened today. To be honest, I don’t think I’d be standing here now if it wasn’t for Doctor Watson.”

John stared down at his hand. His knuckles were raw and bloody. “I really hit him, Greg. Hit him hard.”

“Well, if you hadn’t, Smith would probably be dead.”

John frowned, unconvinced. “I didn’t just hit him. I kicked him. While he was down.”

Greg paused. He thought again of the Landmark’s complaint. John had tackled Sherlock to the ground, strangled him.

“When the orderlies pulled me off him, he said, ‘Let him do what he wants. He’s entitled. I killed his wife.’”

Greg took a cautious breath. “What did you say?”

“I told him he did.”

Greg pursed his lips. “I’m sorry John. About Mary. I was there. I saw. And I know why you would be angry with Sherlock, but--you know that’s not true.”

John’s jaw clenched. “I know. But in that moment, I felt--I was just so angry at him for being high, for…. I felt like it was a game to him. I think I asked him that, when I was hitting him, if he thought it was a game. Like Magnussen. Like Norbury. He’s always got to be so mad-brilliant, and he just does these stupid, reckless things.”

“I thought that was what you liked about him.”

“It was. Before. Before he died. Before Mary died. Before Rosie was born. I can’t afford to be that kind of reckless now.”

 _But you can afford to assault a man?_ Greg thought, but held his tongue. “I understand,” was all he said out loud.

John nodded curtly, with a little sniff. Greg had the feeling he wasn’t satisfied, but he said nothing.

“You’re free to go,” Greg said.

“Okay.” John stood up, brushing imaginary lint from his trousers. Then he left.

* * *

“How is he?” Greg asked.

Mycroft turned around. He was standing over Sherlock, who lay unconscious on the hospital bed in front of him. Greg looked at all of the assorted machines showing their numbered readings, but all of it was Greek to him. Still, even he could see that Sherlock looked bad. One of his eyes was black and swollen shut. His lip had split. And he looked small and frail beneath the bedsheets.

“He’s been subisting on a diet of home-cooked pharmaceuticals. He’s malnourished. His kidneys and liver are compromised. Also, John Watson broke two of his ribs.”

Greg swallowed. “That bad?” He wanted to take his hand. Stroke his cheek. But that wouldn’t be appropriate, even if Mycroft weren’t watching.

Mycroft clasped his left arm with his right and rocked back on his heels. “And the worst of all this is that I am allowing it.”

“What do you mean?”

“My brother is under the impression that if he self destructs with enough vigour, John will intervene. I’ve stood aside and let him conduct this little experiment, but I think it has run its course.” He rolled his shoulders back. Greg wondered how long he’d been standing there.

“Observe.” Mycroft walked briskly to a chair in the corner of the room and hoisted a cane leaning against it.

Greg frowned. “Is that--”

“John Watson’s old walking stick. This is what I suppose passes for an apology and a farewell in his mind.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“John recognizes that what he has done to Sherlock is unforgivable. He’s left the cane as a way of saying, ‘Thank you for all you’ve done for me, and by the way--I won’t be coming back.’”

Greg looked at Sherlock’s black eye and split lip. “Do you think that… maybe that’s for the best?”

“Of course I bloody well think it’s best.”

Greg’s eyebrows lifted. He’d never heard Mycroft swear. Mycroft closed his eyes in a long slow blink, lips tightening. Then his face resumed its previous impassive expression.

“Sherlock won’t accept it, though. He’ll forgive John for this, like he has for everything else. And then he’ll guilt John into taking up with him again. He’s a master manipulator, my brother.”

Greg didn’t know what to say.

“The night they met, John Watson killed a man for Sherlock.”

Greg really wished people would stop talking about the murders Sherlock and John had committed in front of him. “I always kind of suspected that, yeah. But I mean--Jeff Hope was a serial killer. No one was eager to pursue the case.”

“He wasn’t mourned. Still I was… impressed. And concerned. I remember telling my assistant that John would be the making of my brother. Or would make him worse than ever.”

“You think he’s worse than ever now?”

Mycroft gestured to Sherlock’s unconscious form. “Don’t you?”

“I think… that this is different. Before, Sherlock was… lost. Lonely. He was looking for his place in the world. The drugs, the acting out, it was all… because he didn’t know what else to do. Now, he knows better, and he’s self-destructing anyway. Because he wants John’s attention. And that’s….

“At first, I thought it was a good thing, John and Sherlock.” When he’d thought they were just friends. And even when he’d realized that Sherlock had fallen for John, hard, Greg had been, well, a little jealous, but also glad, because he’d still been married and he’d thought John and Sherlock getting together would remove a temptation. But then they didn’t get together. And he’d watched Sherlock, for lack of a better word, _pining_ for John, and that had broken Greg’s heart, a little.

“At first, John smoothed things out, between Sherlock and other people. On their cases. In his personal life. Then Sherlock…” _died_ “…went away. And I don’t think they ever recovered.”

“Indeed. I told Sherlock things wouldn’t be the same when he came back. He didn’t believe me. Do you know that originally he wanted to pop out of a cake?”

Greg winced. “John said he beat up Sherlock because he thought Sherlock thought it was a game. And I don’t think that was true, not about Culverton, he’s convinced the man’s a serial killer, but I think he thought leaving and coming back was a game, that he could just pop back into our lives and shout, ‘Ta da!’ and we’d all be happy to see him.”

Greg swallowed. “I was.” He remembered Sherlock coming up to him smoking a cigarette. ‘Those things will kill you.’ Greg had recognized his voice instantly, and he’d been so flooded with relief and gratitude that Sherlock was alive. Sure, he’d been angry, for a second. He’d called Sherlock a bastard. But he’d pulled him into a fierce embrace just as quickly, because Sherlock was alive and that was a miracle. “John… was angry.”

“He’s a veteran with post traumatic stress disorder and serious anger-management problem.”

“Yeah. John was angry. First for Sherlock faking his death, and now about Mary. And when he gets angry he lashes out. And Sherlock… lets him.”

“He’s never had any sense of self-preservation, my brother. Or any self-esteem, for that matter.”

Greg chewed his lip. Sherlock seemed so confident. Arrogant, even. But Mycroft knew him better than anyone, and Greg was starting to see what Mycroft saw about Sherlock and John. Sherlock didn’t believe that he deserved better.

“I’m sorry, Inspector, to burden you with all this. You came upon me at a trying moment.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. Maybe it’s best if I leave.”

Mycroft nodded stiffly. “Yes. Yes, I think you may be right.”

Greg stopped before leaving the way he came. “Take care of him, Mycroft?”

Mycroft raised both eyebrows. His eyes were tired. “What else would I do?”

“Just… don’t give up on him.”

Mycroft’s lip twitched. “You know Inspector, I never felt the ambivalence about you that I do about John?”

“What do you mean?”

“When Sherlock mentioned you, I did a full background check, of course.”

Greg had assumed as much, but he was surprised Mycroft was admitting it.

“You have a good record. Some insubordination. When you were right. I wasn’t concerned about it. Still, I wanted to see the way you interacted with him.”

Greg nodded.

“Once I did, I have never once have I doubted you were a good influence.”

Greg wondered what Mycroft would think if he knew that Greg carried a torch for his brother. Ship him off to some black site in Yemen, most likely. Then again, John had just beaten the shit out of Sherlock and he was still living. But that was because Sherlock loved him. Greg didn’t have the same protection.

“Keep it that way,” Mycroft continued.

Maybe Mycroft did know. Maybe this was his way of saying he knew about Greg’s crush, and Greg should keep from acting on it. All he said was, “Of course.”


	4. A Good Man

Spotlights cut through the dark woods as two officers in body armour led a small woman in white scrubs to a police van. Her dark hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, and her eyes were puffy from crying. If he didn’t know better, Greg would have thought she was one of the victims here, and yet he recognized her from the photos Lady Smallwood had shown him as Eurus Holmes, Sherlock’s sister. The puppetmaster who had orchestrated all this mayhem. It still boggled, Sherlock having a sister. A sister he didn’t remember. She’d murdered his best childhood mate, and it had so traumatized him he’d made himself forget.

But it wasn’t Eurus he was looking for. Greg scanned the crowd of officers and special ops guys looking for signs of Sherlock. He had to make sure Sherlock was okay. He picked Sherlock’s tall, coat-clad form out of the crowd. He was standing with his collar turned up. John was at his side, soaking wet and wrapped in a gray blanket. Sherlock hovered protectively next to him. Superficially at least, it seemed Sherlock was fine. No obvious signs of injury. But his face and eyes were colorless. Greg approached slowly.

“I just spoke to your brother,” he said.

“How is he?”

Mycroft’s fingers had trembled around his cigarette. “He’s a bit shaken up, that’s all. She didn’t hurt him; she just locked him in her old cell.”

“What goes around comes around,” said John.

Greg winced, because it wasn’t the same, not really. “Yeah. Give me a moment, boys.” He turned to walk back to the other officers. 

“Oh, um. Mycroft,” said Sherlock.

Greg turned around.

“Make sure he’s looked after.”

Greg wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Sherlock express concern for his older brother. For as long as he could remember, it had been the other way round.

“He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.”

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.” He started to walk away again.

“Thanks, Greg.”

He whirled around, startled.

John, still huddled in his blanket, swiveled his head towards Sherlock, and then Greg. Greg knew what his look meant:

_Did you hear that?_

_Yes, yes I did._

It was such a small thing. He’d always known that Sherlock knew his name. Sherlock remembered everything; of course he knew his name, but it had been A Thing--his pretending to forget. Greg wasn’t sure why, but it seemed like a way for Sherlock to put up walls between them. Maybe those walls would come down, now. For the first time in a long time, he permitted himself to hope. He looked at Sherlock, whose face was wide open. Vulnerable. Soft. Greg ached for him. He’d spent a lifetime suppressing his memories of Eurus, and now, he’d have to deal with them all at once. Greg couldn’t imagine what it might do to him, but he worried about relapses and a return to self-destruction. He supposed Mycroft would be worried about the same, and he suspected that if he attempted to “look after” Mycroft, it would only result in the two of them strategizing to care for Sherlock. That was usually how meetings with Mycroft went.

The two officers loaded Eurus into a police van. Greg glimpsed her face just as they closed the door. Completely blank. Almost catatonic. He shivered.

“The helicopter ready?” Greg asked one of the unis.

“Mmm hmm.”

“Let’s move her, then.”

“Is that him, sir?” the uni asked. “Sherlock Holmes?”

Greg glanced at Sherlock, who in turn was watching John.

“Fan, are you?”

“Well, he’s a great man, sir.”

“No, he’s better than that.” A smile crept around Greg’s lips. “He’s a good one.”


	5. What Happened in Serbia?

“Honestly, Lestrade, it’s obvious the brother did it.” Sherlock stepped away from the body in the parking lot and folded away his magnifying glass with a sniff. “I don’t even know why we bothered coming out, John. This is barely a six.”

Truthfully, Greg hadn’t needed Sherlock on this one, but he’d wanted to check in on Sherlock, to see how he was coping with what Greg had privately come to think of as the Eurus Incident. He’d been somewhat surprised to see John, who had arrived separately from Sherlock, with Rosie strapped to his chest in a carrier.

“Well, I guess it’s time for Rosie and me to go home, then.”

“Don’t you live at Baker Street?” asked a uni.

“Not anymore. I live in Kew.”

“Oh. I thought you two were a couple.”

“I’m not gay.” John gestured to Rosie. “I had a wife.”

“Right,” the uni stammered, blushing. “Sorry.”

“Happens all the time.” John turned towards Sherlock. “Bye, Sherlock. Bye Greg. Thanks for inviting us out.” He walked down to the street and hailed a cab.

Sherlock watched him walk away, standing straight, coat collar turned up, hands clasped behind his back. He watched until John’s cab drove away, then walked down the street to hail his own. Greg followed.

“John’s in so deep he’s in Narnia,” Greg muttered.

“What?”

“You never read CS Lewis?”

“Mycroft called his books religious twaddle. Why?”

“No just, John. He’s deep in the closet. That’s all I meant.”

“John is straight. He’s made that abundantly clear.”

Greg snorted. “You know, for a genius, you can be remarkably thick.”

Sherlock frowned.

“Note how he always says ‘I’m not gay,’ and ‘I had a wife,’ never, ‘I’m straight.’ He distracts from the truth without actually lying.”

“You’re splitting hairs. When John says he’s not gay, he means he’s not attracted to men. When he says he had a wife, he means he’s attracted to women.”

Greg shrugged. “Then explain the way he looks at you. Like you hung the moon.”

Sherlock took in a quick breath. “If he ever looked at me that way, it was a long time ago.”

“He still looks at you that way. Sometimes. And don’t pretend you don’t live for it.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous.”

“And if I am?” Greg’s heart pounded in his ears.

Sherlock turned slowly to face him, hips sinuous, a snake in a sharp suit.

Greg’s mouth went dry.

“You still want me.”

Greg licked his lips. “Yeah.”

“After all these years? Why?”

“You have a nice arse.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn’t press him for the real reason. Instead, he flagged down a passing cab. He opened the door and slid into the back seat, then locked his eyes with Greg’s.

“Come home with me.”

Greg glanced back at the crime scene. He should wrap things up, do paperwork.

He sat down next to Sherlock, pulled out his phone, and texted Sally:

_Something’s come up. Have to take off. Please finish up._

Sally wasn’t a stupid woman. She’d probably figure it out. Greg didn’t care.

Sherlock didn’t look at Greg when he got in. “221 Baker Street,” he told the cabbie. Then he looked out the window. His body was all casualness, but he drummed his fingers on the seat, betraying his nervous energy.

Greg reached out and took his hand, squeezed it still. The corner of Sherlock’s lip twitched into a ghost of a smile which faded quickly.

The cab ride was only fifteen minutes. It still felt like the longest of Greg’s life. Sherlock jumped out of the cab when they arrived, leaving Greg to pay, which didn’t surprise him. He tipped the driver, then followed Sherlock up the steps to 221b.

The door knocker was crooked, as usual, but inside, Greg had never seen it look so nice. He wouldn’t call it neat as a pin, but all the surfaces were clear, there were no signs of experiments or takeaway containers. Rosie. Sherlock wanted John to bring Rosie by.

Sherlock took off his coat and hung it on a peg by the stairs. Greg did the same. His blood was zinging. This was happening. This was actually happening.

Sherlock’s eyes met his. His pupils were dilated. Greg dropped his gaze from Sherlock’s eyes to his mouth. God, that mouth. Greg had never forgotten those plush lips, how soft they were, how pliant. 

“Go on, then,” Sherlock huffed.

Greg slipped a hand behind Sherlock’s neck and pressed their mouths together. He slid his tongue between Sherlock’s teeth and buried his hands in Sherlock’s curls.

Sherlock kissed him back, fiercely, tongue sliding over Greg’s and arms snaking behind Greg’s back.

Greg took advantage of the moment to slide his hands down Sherlock’s back and grab a double handful of sumptuous arse.

Sherlock tilted his hips forward, rutting against Greg’s thigh.

Greg broke the kiss to gasp. “Fuck.”

“If you’d like.” Sherlock’s voice was sensuous and low.

“Damn right I’d like.”

“Bedroom, then.”

Sherlock disentangled long enough to cross the room and open the door. He cocked his head, indicating that Greg should follow.

Greg swallowed. He followed Sherlock into the bedroom and enfolded him in an embrace, walking him backwards towards the bed. Sherlock was compliant enough, letting Greg divest him of his suit jacket and start unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock’s skin was smooth and pale, and Greg watched in fascination as more and more of it was exposed as each button came free. Sherlock undid his own belt and trousers, shoving them down over his hips.

Greg knelt between his legs, gazing down at his tight gray boxer briefs. “Can I?” he asked.

“It’s ‘may I,’ Greg, and yes.”

Greg placed his face against Sherlock’s bulge, taking a deep inhale. Musk and sweat. He pulled the briefs down, freeing Sherlock’s pink erection. Then he took the head into his mouth.

Sherlock made an appreciative sound low in his throat. He twined his hands into Greg’s hair and held him, gently cupping his head.

Greg slid down the shaft as far as he could go, inhaling the male scent of Sherlock’s pubic hair. God, but it had been so long. He swirled his tongue around the head, paying extra attention to Sherlock’s frenulum. Then he steadied Sherlock’s cock with one hand and began to move up and down.

Sherlock rocked his hips in time with Greg’s movements.

Greg slicked his fingers with spit and pressed the tips against Sherlock’s entrance. “This okay?”

“I’d prefer to use actual lube.” Sherlock rolled over and crawled across his bed, shoes and opened shirt still on and trousers around his ankles, and opened the drawer to the beside table.

“God, that arse,” said Greg. “I told you that’s why I’ve carried a torch for you all these years.”

He climbed across the bed after Sherlock, rucking his shirt up above his waist. His back was criss crossed with gnarled white scars.

Sherlock froze for a moment, then plucked the bottle of lube and a strip of condoms from the drawer and slid it shut. He rolled over.

“What are those?” asked Greg.

“Serbia.”

“What happened in Serbia?”

Sherlock sat up on his elbows. “A thug beat me with a metal pipe.”

Greg’s heart was in his throat. “Jesus. This was while you were away?”

“Just before I came back.”

Greg paused, doing the math. “Damn. I wish I’d known.”

“You couldn’t have done anything.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have clapped you on the back.”

Sherlock smiled. “Don’t worry. It was … nice.”

“Glad you thought so.”

“I think so. Come here.” Sherlock reached up for Greg.

Greg leaned down into Sherlock’s embrace and kissed him. Sherlock’s mouth was soft and yielding, but Greg was distracted. Someone had beaten Sherlock with a pipe. Half to death, it looked like. How had he gotten away? Had he escaped? Had someone rescued him? Did Mycroft know? Did John?

Sherlock broke the kiss with a sigh. “Ask.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t stop thinking about it. Why were you in Serbia?”

“There was a man who called himself Baron Maupertuis. He was a Serbian arms dealer and human trafficker. He was also an associate of Moriarty’s. I broke into his compound and was in the process of scanning incriminating documents to Interpol when I was caught. Naturally they interrogated me.”

Greg swallowed. “With a pipe.”

“Their methods were crude, and ultimately ineffective. I didn’t tell them anything useful. I escaped once, but was recaptured. I would have escaped again--I convinced my interrogator his wife was cheating on him and that if he left me at that moment he would catch her and her lover in the act--but Mycroft showed up and pulled me out. And demanded to be thanked for his efforts, the berk.”

“So, Mycroft extracted you and brought you back to London?”

“Only because he wanted me to investigate what turned out to be a literal underground terrorist plot.”

Greg knew the relationship between the Holmes brothers was strained at the best of times. He also knew Mycroft would have moved heaven and earth to free Sherlock if he were captured.

“I’m sure that wasn’t the only reason.”

“Yes, I’m sure he also wanted to lord it over me that he came to my rescue. Again.”

Greg stroked Sherlock’s hair. “You know he loves you.”

“He put his feet up and watched me being beaten!”

“And he would have died for you. At Sherrinford.”

Sherlock’s gaze dropped. “I know. But only because he felt guilty. And rightly so.”

“He cares about you, Sherlock. I do, too.”

“Mmmm. Why don’t you lube up your fingers and show me how much you care?”

Greg barked a laugh and did as instructed, squirting the cool liquid over his fingertips. He pressed them against Sherlock’s entrance, rubbing the muscle gently until it yielded. Sherlock took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly as Greg breached him. His cock had flagged while they’d been talking. Greg took it into his mouth, sucking it back to hardness, flattening his tongue against the head.

Sherlock moaned and splayed his legs wide.

Greg stopped sucking long enough to nibble the inside of one thigh. 

“Ngh.”

He did it again. 

Sherlock arched off the bed.

Greg gently spread his fingers, opening Sherlock. Then he fumbled through the sheets until he found the condoms. Sherlock spread invitingly while he tore the packet open and rolled it on.

“Fuck me,” Sherlock demanded.

“God, yes.”

Greg slid up the length of Sherlock’s body, pressing their lower halves together. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes. Slivers of silver ringed the blown pupils. Greg planted a hasty kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. Then he pressed in, slowly at first, supporting his weight on his elbows. The first push was electric, heat clenching his cock, popping over the head and then the tip of the shaft. Greg paused, waiting for Sherlock to relax around him.

Sherlock wrapped his legs around Greg’s and pulled him home.

“Oh….” Greg hadn’t felt this since…. It had probably been decades since he’d been with a man. And Lorraine hadn’t liked anal. Sherlock was tight, so tight, and white hot.

“Move.”

Greg rocked his hips, more stirring than thrusting, keeping his body close to Sherlock’s.

Sherlock dug his heels into Greg’s back, and wrapped his arms around Greg, too, pulling them close together. Sweat pooled between their bodies. 

“Fuck, please, fuck.”

Greg lengthened his strokes, pulling back further, pressing deeper, trying to remember what angle felt good when he was on the receiving end. Sherlock cried out, and oh, that must be the spot. Greg repeated the motion, rocking his hips, making Sherlock squirm and writhe and oh, it felt bloody amazing.

Sherlock worked a hand between them, and Greg pushed himself up to give him space. Sherlock stroked his cock, fingers sliding back and forth over the foreskin with the slightest little twist at the top and fuck, that was hot, watching him touching himself. His cock was flushed deep pink and the slit was beaded with pre-come.

“You’re beautiful,” Greg moaned. “So fucking beautiful.”

Sherlock stroked faster, his mouth forming a little ‘O’ and eyes squinting shut. He arched his neck back. Yes, yes, Greg drove his hips harder and then Sherlock was coming, spurting over his hand and onto his belly. Greg shoved into him once, twice, and then he was coming too, his legs tight, vision white, pulsing into the condom. He slumped forward onto his elbows. Come slicked his belly, sticking Sherlock and him together.

Fuck. That was… everything he’d imagined fucking Sherlock Holmes would be. Greg stroked Sherlock’s cheek, laid a kiss on his forehead. “Thank you.”

“You’re heavy,” Sherlock whinged.

Greg pushed himself up and off Sherlock, then rolled onto his back. He stared up at the ceiling. God he wanted a cigarette. 

“Those things will kill you,” said Sherlock.

Greg was back to the night Sherlock came back, fumbling with his lighter when he heard a voice in the dark. “You bastard.” He smiled.


	6. Surprisingly Okay

Greg was fucking Sherlock Holmes. Even though this was now something he was doing on a semi-regular basis, he didn’t quite believe it. It was still surprising, every time--the softness of Sherlock’s curls slipping through his fingertips, the plushness of his lips, the length of the naked body on the bed beneath him. He kissed Sherlock frantically, twining his fingers in that dark hair--

“Pull it.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse.

Greg tugged at his curls.

“Harder. Make it hurt.”

Greg arched Sherlock’s neck back, licking a stripe up over his Adam’s apple.

“Harder. Bite me.”

Greg released Sherlock, propping himself up on his elbows. “What is this all of the sudden? You want to play rough tonight?” 

“I always want it rough. I’ve been dropping hints you haven’t noticed, so I thought I might as well try asking directly.”

Okay. This wasn’t exactly Greg’s area, but he’d done a bit of slap and tickle, using his handcuffs recreationally. “You want me to spank you?” Greg asked.

Sherlock’s lips twisted into a moue of disgust.

“Okay. No spanking. You like being held down?”

“Yes.”

“Tied down?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. You want to use my handcuffs?”

“Not the best tool for bondage. I want to struggle. Handcuffs can cause nerve damage in that scenario.”

“So, we’re talking….”

“Rope. Hemp. Lots of it.”

“I learned a few knots in the scouts, but I’ve never tied up a person.”

“I’ll teach you. And you’ll need to be rigorous. I’m an escape artist. I also have…” Sherlock slithered away from Greg and crawled to the edge of the bed, leaned over the side and pulled a large wooden box out from under it, and rifled through it, “…these.” He held a pair of leather cuffs over his head. They were long, cut to fit over the wrist and thumb, with heavy straps crossing them in an X. Brass padlocks dangled from the buckles.

“Those look… serious.”

“They’re intended for suspension.”

“Okay, that’s…. Wow. So you’re really into like, whips and chains and stuff.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “Problem?”

“I guess I’m just trying to understand where this is coming from. Is this about what happened to you in Serbia?”

Sherlock stiffened. “No. No, I was active in the London leather scene long before Serbia.”

London leather scene. Greg wasn’t exactly familiar, but he imagined dark, seedy clubs where men in leather harnesses beat one another with paddles and floggers. “So you’ve always been into this?”

“Eurus and I played games as children. Mycroft caught us once. He was horrified.”

“No offense, Sherlock, but I think I’m on his side on this one.”

“Why?”

“I’ve seen the aftermath of your sister’s ‘games.’”

Sherlock shrugged. “We were perhaps not the safest of BDSM practitioners, but it was consensual. Eurus loved to see my responses to various physical stimuli. Her own were incredibly limited. I remember once she cut her hand open to see how the muscles inside it worked. Mycroft asked her if it hurt, and she asked him ‘which one is pain.’”

Greg shuddered. “Is this about Eurus, then? Are you trying to work through some kind of … childhood trauma?”

“I’m not traumatized, Greg.”

Greg arched an eyebrow.

“Well, not any more than the average person.”

“Your sister murdered your best friend and burned down your house! You were so traumatized you deleted her from your memory.”

“Yes, and then I recovered those memories and dealt with them. I’m fine now. Other people had parents who beat them or uncles who diddled them or peers who bullied them. We’re all damaged.”

“Yes, but Sherlock, you didn’t just have a traumatic childhood. Eurus just tried to make you kill your brother. She almost killed John. That’s recent. And I just… don’t think it’s safe. And I don’t mean the tying up and the whips and the chains. I know you can do that all reasonably safely. I mean…. We’re talking about digging up old memories.”

“I remember everything. There’s nothing left to ‘dig up.’”

“And six months ago? Wouldn’t you have said you remembered everything then?”

“No. No, there were whole swaths of my childhood that were just… blank. I assumed I deleted my early years because they were boring. I know better now.”

“So you didn’t remember the games with Eurus until recently.”

“Correct.”

“So… what did you remember? Where did you think this interest came from?”

“Melodramas. Mycroft used to watch old black and white films.”

“Where a villain with a black moustache ties a woman to the train tracks?”

“Yes. I was fascinated with the idea of bondage. Of restraint, and escape from it. I studied escapology.”

“Now, this I understand. It seems more in line with… well. What you do.”

“It has come in handy in a couple of instances.”

“This I can do. You want to be tied up; I can tie you up.”

“Really?” Sherlock leaned off the edge of the bed and reached into the box again, pulling out several bundles of hemp rope and throwing them on the bed.

Greg hadn’t really meant _now_ , but there was no way he could quash the hope in Sherlock’s eyes.

“You’ll have to show me,” Greg warned.

Sherlock nodded, and pulled the end of one of the bundles in such a way that the rope all came undone in one long piece folded in half. He picked up the folded end of the rope and wrapped it around his wrist several times before sliding the rope under the wraps and tying a knot. “See?” He pulled the rope. “The knot won’t tighten on itself.” Sherlock pulled apart another bundle and handed Greg the folded end--the bight; he remembered that from scouts.

Greg wrapped the rope around Sherlock’s other wrist, trying to imitate the knot Sherlock had created. It took him several tries, but he ended up correctly wrapping the tail of the rope around the bight and creating a neat knot that wouldn’t tighten down.

“Now what?” Greg asked. “You don’t have bedposts.”

“Ah, but I have these.” Sherlock crawled across the bed and reached down to the corner, pointing at something.

Greg crawled over and looked. There was a large metal eyelet screwed into the bed frame. Because of course Sherlock would modify his bed for bondage rather than just buying a goddamn headboard with slats, or something. “So I just--” he threaded the ends of the length of rope attached to Sherlock’s wrist through the eyelet and tied a couple of square knots.

“Yes, exactly.”

Greg repeated the process on the other side. He had to admit Sherlock looked fetching, arms spread cruciform across the bed.

“What about your legs? Spread eagle isn’t exactly the best position for--”

Sherlock opened his legs and folded them up and back, so his ankles touched his wrists.

“Jesus, you’re flexible.”

Sherlock smirked.

Greg picked up another bundle of rope and unwrapped it. He made a cuff and a knot around Sherlock’s ankle in much the same way he had the wrist, then tied it to the same eyelet. He did the same on the other side, then sat back on his heels to observe his work.

Sherlock lay on his back, arms and legs outstretched, arse exposed.

“You’re sure you’re not into spanking?” asked Greg, “because this seems like a great position for spanking.”

“Go ahead, if you’d like. I don’t dislike spanking. I just don’t find the act satisfying on its own.”

Greg gave Sherlock’s arse a smack. The sound was surprisingly satisfying. And Greg’s cock was intrigued. He smacked the other cheek, wanting to keep things balanced. Sherlock’s skin jiggled. Greg smacked again, and again, until the skin was pleasantly pink. Sherlock’s cock was red and hard, and dripping against his belly.

“More,” said Sherlock. “There’s a paddle in the box under the bed.”

Greg paused. “Sherlock…. I think this is where I have to draw the line.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “You’re afraid to inflict real pain.”

“Not afraid. Just don’t want to.”

“Because you think it will bring back memories of Eurus?”

“Partially, yes. But also, I’ve grown rather…. I care for you, Sherlock. And I can’t reconcile that. Hurting someone I care about.”

“Not even if it’s what I want?”

Greg shrugged. “I’m sorry. It’s just not how I was raised. It just doesn’t seem right.”

“And you don’t think that’s just a tiny bit condescending?”

“Maybe so. But I guess I’m old fashioned. It’s not something I can change.”

Sherlock smacked his head against the headboard. “Fuck.”

“Hey. I may not know much about this BDSM stuff, but I thought that both of us got to have limits.”

“Yes, of course, but yours are arbitrary and stupid. The gluteus maximus is a big muscle, protected by an ample layer of fat. Paddling is hardly dangerous. It doesn’t even require any skill. Just a spirit of adventure.”

“Sorry, Sherlock, but I’m not comfortable hitting you with anything but my hand.”

“So, what? We’re finished now? You’re going to leave me like this?” he glanced down at his cock.

“I should, because you’re being a brat, but no, I actually thought I’d take advantage of the position and have my way with you.”

“Oh, thank God.” Sherlock slumped in his binds.

Greg chuckled. He laid down on the bed between Sherlock’s legs and kissed his inner thigh. He nibbled. He laved at Sherlock’s scrotum. He blew over his hole.

“Damn it, Lestrade, fuck me.”

Greg crawled to the edge of the bed and pulled the box out from under it. “Please tell me you have a ball gag somewhere in here.” He rifled through. More rope. The suspension cuffs. Ankle cuffs that looked similar. The aforementioned paddle. A riding crop. A wicked looking ratan cane. An assortment of butt plugs and dildos of varying shapes and materials. And yes. A red silicone ball gag on a leather strap.

Fuck. He’d been half joking, but now that he saw it, he knew he was serious. He pulled the gag out of the box and knelt at the headboard next to Sherlock. “Open up.”

He expected Sherlock to refuse, to say something scathing. Instead, to his surprise, Sherlock obediently opened his mouth. Greg pressed the ball between his teeth, sliding the leather strap behind his neck. Sherlock obligingly leaned forward so that Greg could fasten the buckle. _Holy shit_. Greg’s hands were shaking. The rush of Sherlock Holmes _obeying_ him went straight to his cock. He wondered if Sherlock had one of those ring gags, that would hold his mouth open so that Greg could fuck it.

A drop of drool had collected on Sherlock’s lower lip. Greg knelt up and pressed the head of his cock against Sherlock’s mouth. Drool and pre-cum mixed as he rubbed the head of his cock over the gag. Sherlock watched, eyes wide.

Greg slid back down Sherlock’s body, ignoring his aching cock for now, and buried his face between Sherlock’s thighs. He licked a stripe across Sherlock’s hole.

“Ngh,” Sherlock groaned behind the gag. He twisted in his binds.

Greg held his legs down and licked, and licked, feeling the muscle relax beneath him. He worked his tongue in, and then his fingers, which he spread in order to work his tongue still deeper. Sherlock was hot inside, and tasted earthy. It had been a long time since Greg had done this, and he wanted to do it right. He made slow circles with his tongue.

Sherlock made frantic, muffled, mewling sounds.

Greg devoured his hole, licking, sucking, moving his fingers in and out. His cock was rock hard. He started to rut against the bed, grinding his aching erection against the sheets. He wanted to be inside Sherlock. He also wanted to make Sherlock wait.

“Can you come from this?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

“What about this?” he inserted two fingers and rubbed them against Sherlock’s prostate.

“Aah,” said Sherlock.

It might have been a “yeah.” Greg wasn’t really sure. He didn’t much care. Sherlock was writhing on the bed, thrusting his hips up into Greg’s hand.

Greg climbed up the length of Sherlock’s body and laid a kiss on his forehead, then crawled to the nightstand and kissed the sole of Sherlock’s bound foot. He opened the drawer and found the lube and a strip of condoms.

“What was it you said? ‘Damn it Lestrade, fuck me?’” Greg tore open a condom packet and rolled the rubber down over his aching cock. He squirted a dollop of lube over Sherlock’s dilated hole, then threw the bottle on the bed. He lined them up. “I hope you can come from this,” he said. “Because I’m not touching you.”

“Unh,” moaned Sherlock.

Greg reached under Sherlock’s hips and grabbed onto his arse, holding Sherlock in place. Then he thrust his cock into Sherlock’s hole, which yielded readily, and fucked him hard and deep.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed.

Greg pounded away at him. There was something amazing about just letting go, knowing Sherlock would take whatever he was given. He grunted like an animal, fucking with wild abandon. Sherlock responded in kind, making incoherent noises from behind the gag. Tightness crept up Greg’s calves, the backs of his thighs, and finally his balls. He was close now, teetering on the edge.

“Can you come?” Greg asked. “Can you come for me?”

Sherlock’s eyes opened. His pupils were blown dark. Sweat slicked a stray curl to his forehead. He nodded.

 _Oh, thank God_. Greg thrust hard, once, twice, and then he was coming, pulsing hard into the condom. He forced himself to keep thrusting, even though it hurt, until he felt Sherlock clench around him. Sherlock gripped tight, moaned through the gag, and then spurted hot against Greg’s belly.

For a few moments, Greg lay heavily on Sherlock’s chest, hot and sticky. Then he slowly peeled himself up. He crawled over to the edge of the bed, examining Sherlock’s foot. The rope had left marks on his ankle, but didn’t seem to have tightened down. Greg untied the square knots connecting the tails of rope to the eyelet. Then he guided Sherlock’s ankle, still cuffed, into a more comfortable position. He did the same on the other side.

“Gah-um,” said Sherlock. “Ake ish ov.”

“That first word better not have been ‘Graham,’” said Greg. “Or I’m leaving the gag in.”

“Gaeg.”

“Better.”

Sherlock craned his neck forward. Greg unfastened the gag from behind his head. Copious drool dripped down his chin. It was kind of disgusting, but in an endearing way. He went back to the nightstand, found a packet of tissue, and wiped Sherlock’s face.

“Thank you,” said Sherlock. He licked his lips, then opened and closed his mouth.

“You’re welcome.”

Greg untied Sherlock’s hands next, first the right, then the left. They were cool to the touch, but not discolored. He rubbed them vigorously, to bring some warmth back into them. Sherlock watched with a smirk that was almost fond. Greg untied his ankles next.

“Not sure how to put the rope back into those nifty bundles.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll do it later.”

Greg gathered the rope into a spaghetti pile on the side of the bed. Then he pulled Sherlock into his arms. “What now?” He asked. “Aren’t we supposed to do something special? Aftercare?”

Sherlock shrugged. “If you’d like.”

“I’d like, yeah. And maybe something of a debriefing.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“Well, I don’t know what you call it.”

Sherlock smirked.

“Anyway, I’ll start. How was that for you?”

“Surprisingly okay.”

“Surprisingly?”

“I thought that after you refused to paddle me you were going to be prudish.”

“Okay. But I wasn’t.”

“No, you were, just, it just wasn’t as bad as I was expecting.”

“You’re upset I didn’t paddle you.”

“I’m upset that you didn’t have a good reason. I expected better from you, Lestrade. ‘It’s just not how I was raised?’’ Surely you weren’t raised to be bisexual, either, but you figured out on your own that not everything your parents told you about sex was true.”

“I know. I know, but it’s not just ‘how I was raised.’ Hurting you goes against every instinct. I just can’t see myself doing that to someone I care about.”

“Are you willing to try? Or is this a hard limit?”

“I don’t know. I know I can’t try now. I’m not saying never.”

Sherlock sighed.

“And if I can’t ever…. Is stuff like what we did tonight enough?”

“That depends. Are you comfortable with me playing with others who are willing to do things you won’t?”

Greg was taken aback. He’d just assumed that Sherlock and he were exclusive. Which was really fucking stupid and he should have known better. His instinct was to say ‘no,’ because he wasn’t comfortable sharing, not after Lorraine. But then Sherlock might drop him, and certainly it was better to share Sherlock than not have him at all, wasn’t it?

“Would it just be sex?” he asked. “No other relationships.”

Sherlock raised both eyebrows. “Does that mean we’re in a relationship?”

Greg’s heart pounded. The longer this conversation went on, the more ground he felt he was losing. “Aren’t we?”

Sherlock shrugged. “If you’d like to be.”

“Yeah. I’d like. Very much.”

Sherlock nodded. “Then yes. We’re in a relationship. And if I played with anyone else, it’d just be sex. No other relationships.”

“I can deal with that,” Greg lied. “I think. Just--tell me. If you see anyone else. I don’t want details, just… tell me.”

“Okay,” said Sherlock. “I’ll tell you if there’s anyone else.”


	7. I Can Be Terrifying

Greg had gotten used to picking up takeaway and swinging by 221b after he left the office, slurping ramen or lo mein and doing paperwork while Sherlock typed away on his laptop, played violin or worked on an experiment. It was peaceful. Almost domestic. Some nights they had sex after; more often than not, they didn’t. Some nights, they didn’t even converse, just worked in one another’s company. This was one of those nights. Sherlock was updating his website; Greg was preparing a case for trial. They’d been sitting in silence for hours, Greg stealing glances at the long line of Sherlock’s throat, the curve of his Adam’s apple. 

God, but he had it bad for this man. Had always had it bad for this man. And now he had him. He couldn’t quite believe it. And it could still all slip through his fingers, and for what, because he had some hang ups? Was he really going to sit around waiting for Sherlock to get bored, or was he going to step up, and try to please him? 

Sherlock glanced towards him. “When I said I might have sex with other people, I meant someday, hypothetically. I’m not planning my next liaison.”

“I thought you said you weren’t a psychic.”

“I’m not, but you keep looking at me when you think I’m not paying attention; ergo, you are thinking about me, or us, and our relationship. You chew at your lower lip when you think about sex. You’re thinking about our sexual relationship. Your brow furrows when you worry. You’re afraid you’re not pleasing me. But you’re pensive, thoughtful. You’re planning on doing something outside your comfort zone, to try to keep me. I’m not going anywhere, Greg.”

“Well, that’s a relief. But you’re right. I’m worried I’m not pleasing you and I’ve decided that you’re more important than whatever hang ups I have about it.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

The problem was, he still wasn’t clear what exactly Sherlock wanted. He’d seen the suspension cuffs and the floggers and the cane, but he wasn’t sure what to do with any of those things even if he decided he was willing to try them. Greg suspected the internet would probably have a lot of advice, probably some of it suspect, but he’d never been the type to learn by reading. He learned by doing. Or maybe in this case, by being done to.

“Yes. But I have no idea what I’m doing, and I want to understand what’s in it for you. I want to see what all the fuss is about.”

“What are you saying?”

“I want you to do it to me. Whatever it is that you like.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve no objection to topping you if it’s what you want. I prefer to bottom, but I’m not inexperienced on the other side of the ropes. But then we should try whatever you think you might like, not whatever I’d like. There’s no guarantee our tastes overlap.”

“Yeah, but, I’m not like you. I don’t have anything I think I might like. I’ve never fantasized about being tied up or held down or… hurt. It’s not my thing.”

“Well, then you shouldn’t do it.”

“But I want to understand.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Why not? Because I’m not as smart as you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Because even people who enjoy the same acts get different things out of them. My whole life, I’ve craved intense stimulation. My mind needs it. As does my body. The Work provides it. And the drugs, of course.”

Greg frowned.

“Pain is an alternative. I get enough intense stimulation, my mind shuts off. My body takes over. The endorphins sweep me away and I get… high. I can’t promise you will experience pain the same way. If you’re goal is to try to feel what I feel, I highly doubt that’s achievable.”

That made sense. Maybe masochists were just wired differently. But he still wanted an idea of what Sherlock was into. “What if my goal is just to know what it is you want?”

“I can tell you what I want. I like sensory deprivation: Blindfolds. Noise cancelling headphones. Suspension. And I like sensory overload, mostly in the form of pain: impact play, flogging heading up to paddles and crops, the cane. I expect a session to leave bruises that may take weeks to fade. I like sharp pain, too. Needles, knives. Not all the scars on my body are from Serbia. And I like all of this with sex. To be fucked when I’m bound and bleeding. To be used. Taken. I want to feel owned.”

Greg swallowed. Sherlock’s kinks were intimidating, to say the least. “Then I want that. If I’m going to be doing these things to you, I want to know how it feels.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t want to do these things to you if you don’t want them.”

“But I do. Maybe not the way you do, because you’ve always fantasized about them. But because I want to have this experience. Doesn’t that count? I’m an adult. I’m giving informed consent. Who’s being condescending now?”

Sherlock’s lip quirked. “Throwing my words back at me?”

“I don’t see how it’s different. I’m asking you for something I want. You’re giving me arbitrary and stupid reasons why you can’t give it to me.”

Sherlock threw up his hands. “Fine. I’ll do it. But not without some ground rules.”

“Okay. That’s reasonable.”

“Rule one: we are not playing tonight. Tonight is for talking about what we’re going to do at some other time. Nothing will be done which we have not discussed in advance.”

Greg was a little bit disappointed, which surprised him, because he thought he should be relieved. “But doesn’t that ruin the element of surprise?”

“Surprise is advanced. And somewhat overrated. Especially for your first time, I want there to be no surprises. You should know what I’m going to do to you,” he smirked. “The anticipation is half the fun.”

“Rule two: when we do play, we have a safeword. Either of us can use it. I like traffic lights. Easy to remember.”

“Traffic lights?”

“‘Green’ means ‘everything is fine’. ‘Yellow’ means ‘I can continue the scene but ease up on this particular thing’. ‘Red’ means ‘end the scene immediately.’”

“Okay.” Under no circumstances was he going to say ‘red.’ Whatever Sherlock threw at him, he could and would handle it.

“Rule three: Don’t be an idiot. I understand you want to push your limits, but if you’re miserable, use your safeword. You’re not going to impress me by powering through. I’ve been tortured. That’s not what I want to do to you.”

Greg sobered, remembering the gnarled scars on Sherlock’s back where the end of the pipe had torn lose chunks of flesh. The blows had to have broken ribs. “Okay. But I’m not stopping just because I’m a little uncomfortable. I want this experience.”

“I know. Tell me what precisely you want.”

“I want to try the paddle for sure. You were so disappointed I didn’t use it on you. And something to work up to that, I guess.”

“My hand. And a flogger.”

Greg’s dad had spanked him with his hand. He knew how that felt. A flogger, he wasn’t sure, but he felt like he could take being hit. “Beyond that, I don’t know. I’m game for any of the things on your list, I guess.”

“Come on, Lestrade. I need limits.”

“You talked about marks. I’m okay with you leaving marks, but I don’t want any where people can see.”

“Okay. Nothing above the collar or below the wrists. And clarify what you mean by being okay with marks. Are we talking about red handprints that will fade a few hours after the scene, or bruises that will last for days or weeks? The later are usually administered towards meatier areas, like the thighs and arse.”

“Well I do a lot of paperwork. Don’t hit me so hard I can’t sit down. Light bruising is okay, I guess. Let’s say a few days.”

Sherlock nodded. “Can I fuck you?”

“Yeah. I want that.” Sherlock’s cock was heavy and thick on his tongue, and Greg couldn’t wait to see how it would feel in his arse. “I’ve been meaning to ask you if we could switch.”

“Interesting. I didn’t know you bottomed.”

“Not in a long time.” Not since before Loraine. Not since uni. “But I’ve done it before. I liked it well enough.”

“Alright. What about restraints?”

“Sure. But I’m not as flexible as you.”

“Understood. I won’t put you in any stress positions.”

Greg winced. “Did they do that to you? In Serbia?”

“Yes.”

Greg imagined Sherlock squatting against a wall, standing on tiptoe with his arms bound and stretched above his head. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You’re getting distracted. How do you feel about blindfolds?”

“Fine.”

“It’s more intense than you might think. You won’t know when or where the pain is going to be coming from.”

That was a little scary, but again, what ever Sherlock gave him, he would handle. “I trust you.”

Sherlock smiled. “Good, you’ll need to. How do you feel about roles? Do you just want me to show you how the physical aspects of BDSM feel? Or do you want to explore the psychological aspects as well?”

“How do you mean?”

“Do you want us to play as ourselves, or take on roles.”

“You mean like roleplay. Like some kind of interrogation scene?” He wasn’t sure he could do that without feeling silly.

“Not necessarily. I just mean that I can be myself, or I can take on a number of dominant personas. It depends on whether you just want to be topped, or if you want to submit to me, and how.”

“You mean like call you ‘sir’ and what not?”

Sherlock’s eyes glittered. “There is far more to being a dominant than being called ‘sir.’ I can be a stern but gentle teacher. Or I can be… terrifying. How far do you want to go?”

Greg ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Again, I’ve never really thought about this. I’m afraid if there’s too much ceremony I won’t be able to take it seriously.”

Sherlock nodded. “That’s fair. Ceremony requires a certain amount of suspension of disbelief.”

“But on the other hand, I kind of want the full experience? Like I said, I trust you.” And he remembered how it felt to put the ball gag on Sherlock, the rush he’d felt at being obeyed. Would it feel similar, to be the one obeying? “I want you to take charge. And I want to see what you’re like as a… dom. I guess take on whatever persona you like best.”

“Are you sure? What I like best is deducing my subs. Taking them apart, physically and mentally. You’ve seen what I can do even when I’m not in charge of a scene. I did warn you that I can be terrifying.”

There was a gleam in Sherlock’s eyes, and something about it went to the core of Greg’s belly. He’d always liked seeing Sherlock in his element. And he’d been on the receiving end of Sherlock’s deductions before. What would it be like, having that gaze on him, probing for what he most dreaded or feared?

“But you still won’t do anything we haven’t discussed?”

Sherlock nodded. “Nothing we haven’t discussed, I promise.”

“Then I want that. I want to see you do your thing. I want you to do it to me.”

Sherlock smiled. “It will be my pleasure.”

“When can we do this?” Greg asked.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m off Thursday.”

“Thursday it is, then.”

Greg grinned. He was nervous, but excited, too. He was beginning to understand what Sherlock said, about the anticipation being half the fun. “I know you said we couldn’t play tonight, but can we have sex?”

Sherlock smirked. “Yes, of course.”

Greg sat back in his chair and patted his thigh. Sherlock crossed the room and sank into Greg’s lap in a sinuous movement, straddling Greg’s thighs and twining his arms around Greg’s neck. Greg kissed him.


	8. You're Mine

Greg wasn’t sure ‘fun’ was the word he’d use to describe his anticipation. Maybe ‘anticipation’ wasn’t the word either. More like ‘dread.’ A knot had been forming in his belly since Wednesday afternoon, and it worsened all of Thursday. There was a tingle of excitement, too, somewhere deep, but mostly, he felt nervous. He sweated through his shirt and had to change into the spare he kept in his office.

When he finally did take a cab to 221b, a black car was parked at the kerb in front of the building. Shit. Mycroft had found out that Greg was fucking his baby brother. Greg sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Oh, well. He’d dealt with Mycroft’s intimidation tactics before. He got out of the car, tipped the driver, and squared his shoulders. Then he walked towards the black car.

His phone pinged.

_Get in.--SH_

Greg typed back. _Can’t you just talk to him?_

_This isn’t Mycroft. It’s me. Get in.--SH_

_Is this part of our game?_

_Yes.--SH_

Great. So Sherlock was starting the game by kidnapping him. Drama queen. Greg sighed and opened the car door. The back seat of the car was empty. The privacy screen between him and the driver was up. Greg sat on the back seat. On something. He ran his hand under his arse and found a black leather blindfold. It had blended into the black leather interior of the car when he’d gotten in. His phone pinged again.

_Put it on--SH_

Had Sherlock deduced that he’d found the blindfold, or was there a camera in here? Greg glanced around but didn’t see anything.

_Put it on. Or text your safeword--SH_

Greg sighed. But he pulled the blindfold over his eyes. It was padded and comfortable. It also completely blacked out his vision.

Greg sat back and was grateful he didn’t get carsick, because he was fairly certain the driver was going around in increasingly larger circles. He had no clue where they were. Or where they were going. Eventually, gravel crunched under the tyres and they came to a stop.

Greg drummed his fingers on his thighs. Was he supposed to just wait here? Would someone come for him? Would Sherlock text him further instructions? After a few moments, the door opened.

“We’ve arrived, sir.”

The voice was familiar. “Wiggins?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

Definitely Wiggins. Somehow he felt better.

“Step out of the car, sir.” said Wiggins.

Greg did so, feeling for the door frame with his fingers. Then he pulled himself to standing.

“Here.” A hand found his. “Take my arm.”

Greg snaked his arm through Wiggins’, who lead him away from the car, gravel grinding under his shoes. Then they stepped onto a concrete pathway. Greg counted out twenty paces. They stopped.

“Wait here.” Wiggins opened a door. It squeaked on its hinges. Then he took Greg’s hand again. “Right this way.” Greg stepped through. Wiggins slid his arm to Greg’s again as they walked across the floor. Linoleum?

“Careful,” said Wiggins. “We’re going down some stairs. I’m going to walk in front of you. Put your hands on my shoulders.”

Wiggins backed up against Greg. He put his hands on Wiggins’ shoulders. They stepped forwards, then down, down down. The stairs were wooden, hollow under his feet. Eventually, they got to cement again. Basement, by the odor, and the fact that they’d walked down the stairs. Wiggins took several more steps and then stopped. “Okay. That’s it. We’re here. You can let go now.”

Greg let go and stood still. Wiggins walked away, back up the stairs. The door shut above him.

“You may remove the blindfold,” said Sherlock.

Greg could have kissed him he was so relieved. He pulled the blindfold off his eyes and placed it on top of his head.

He was definitely in an unfurnished basement, which had been repurposed as a sex dungeon, judging by the racks of whips and restraints lining the cinder block walls. A single bare bulb hung from the middle of the ceiling, directly above a metal framed queen size bed, bare except for a fitted sheet, on which Sherlock was seated. He was wearing his black suit and shirt, a riding crop balanced across his open knees. He’d been in the room the whole time, watching Wiggins lead Greg downstairs, waiting for the perfect moment to make his reveal. If there was one thing Sherlock knew how to do, it was drama.

“Lestrade. It’s good to see you’ve arrived safely. Again, there are ground rules: You will not speak unless spoken to, unless it is to use your safewords. When you do speak, you will address me as ‘sir.’ You will comply with any and all orders I give you--again, unless you safeword. Failure to comply will result in punishment. Do you understand?”

Greg’s throat was dry. “Yes. Sir.” The word tasted strange in his mouth.

“Good. Take off your clothes.”

Greg shivered. For the first time, he felt a good kind of anticipation. Sherlock hopefully would administer pleasure as well as pain. He took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. His nipples hardened. The air in the basement was cool. Greg bent down and untied his shoes, kicked them off. He unbuckled his belt next, dropping his trousers and letting them puddle around his ankles. Then he peeled off his socks. He piled the clothes in a heap on the floor, uncertain of where to place them.

“Sir, where should I--”

Sherlock stood swiftly and brought the crop down on Greg’s nipple. It stung. “What was the first rule!” he demanded.

Shit. “Not to speak unless spoken to, sir.”

Sherlock snapped the tip of the crop against Greg’s other nipple. Sharp pain lanced through his chest. Fuck. Sherlock was actually punishing him. He knew Sherlock had said he would punish him, but Greg hadn’t really known what to expect.

“And what did you do?” Sherlock asked.

“I spoke, sir.” He added, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Your apology is accepted. Place your clothes in the chest at the foot of the bed.”

It was a wooden chest that ran the width of the bed frame. Half of it was empty. The other half was filled with toys. Dildos and butt plugs, lube and condoms. Greg folded his clothes and placed them in the empty half. He felt slightly dizzy. Sherlock was going to hurt him. He’d asked for that, he knew, but it was like it was only now sinking in.

“Come here,” said Sherlock, who was standing behind him.

Greg walked and stood a few feet from Sherlock, hands at his sides. Sherlock walked to him and lifted his chin, pulling him into a smouldering kiss. It took Greg’s breath away. Sherlock’s tongue claimed his mouth, and his hand cupped Greg’s nape. Greg’s cock began to stir. Sherlock ran a hand down his back, fingers trailing over his spine. He clutched at Greg’s arse. Finally he broke the kiss.

“You’re beautiful,” breathed Sherlock. “Do you know that?”

“If you say so, sir.”

“I do say so, and I’m always right,” said Sherlock. “Follow me.”

Greg trailed behind Sherlock as they walked to a corner of the room. Standing in the corner were two black-painted pieces of wood arranged in an X with a padded rectangle of leather in the center. A third piece of wood connected the two legs of the X at the bottom. Greg licked his lips.

Sherlock stripped off his jacket and hung it on a peg next to an intimidating coiled bullwhip. He unfastened his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. Fuck.

“Stand on the cross, facing the wall, arms above your head.”

Greg stepped up onto the cross piece, spreading his legs and arms as though preparing to be frisked. The wood was cool against his skin. There was a pair of leather cuffs attached to metal eyelets at the tops of the X. These were different from the suspension cuffs Sherlock had under his bed. They buckled around the wrists instead of locking. Sherlock unbuckled them and placed them around Greg’s wrists. There was a padded strap that ran up from the base of his wrist to above his fingers. It was surprisingly comfortable to pull on, which he supposed was its purpose. Sherlock buckled the cuffs tightly. Greg let out a deep breath and leaned forward, testing to see if the cross would hold his weight. It felt solid.

Sherlock moved the blindfold back over Greg’s eyes. This was oddly comforting. He couldn’t see anything except for the wall anyway, and the blindfold felt almost like it was holding his eyes.

Sherlock knelt next to him and buckled Greg’s legs into cuffs attached to the base of the cross. These were more straightforward affairs, but they were lined with some kind of fleece material that felt nice. He felt like he’d be able to hold this position for a while, which was probably the point.

Sherlock was somewhere to his left, taking something off the wall. Probably something to hit him with. Greg shivered.

A woosh of air swished behind him. Then he felt a slight sting. It happened again, on the other side. Whoosh, sting, whoosh, sting. Sherlock was hitting him with something that bordered on soft, in a nice rhythmic pattern across his back. Greg had had massages that hurt worse than this. For the first time he was beginning to think he could handle this, even though he suspected Sherlock was just warming up.

He was right. The next flogger was heavier. Woosh, thwack, woosh, thwack. It felt more like being slapped. The slaps went down his back, over the globes of his arse, and his thighs. The pattern was getting more erratic. Sometimes Sherlock brought the tails down like a brush stroke, other times he snapped them into Greg’s back so just the tips hit. That stung the worst. Sherlock mostly did that to his arse, but sometimes he also did it to his shoulders.

The next whip was heavier still. Whoosh, thud, woosh thud. When Sherlock hit him with the tips it was like being punched. Greg pulled hard on the cuffs, leaning into his bonds. The blows came harder, faster. He was pretty sure there were actually two floggers. And yes, Sherlock brought them both down on his shoulders together, that was confirmed. He did it again, and again. God but he must be putting his back into it. Greg’s eyes were starting to water. The blows moved down his back to his arse, sometimes in pairs, sometimes one after the other. A hard, rhythmic pounding. Thud thud, thud thud, thud thud. His heart pounded just as hard in his ears.

The next whip _cut_. Greg could have sworn he was bleeding. Sherlock wouldn’t do that to him? Would he? The tails were narrow, and they sliced into his skin. Every blow was pure sting. His back burned. He wanted to beg Sherlock to go back to the other ones from before, the thudding. He squeezed his eyes shut and to his horror found tears welling behind them.

Abruptly the beating stopped. Sherlock placed a hand between Greg’s shoulder blades. It grounded him. Sherlock kissed the nape of his neck, then bit, hard. Greg let out a whimper.

“Look what you do to me.” Sherlock rutted against Greg’s arse. “You’ve been so good, so brave.”

Greg felt like he was underwater. It took him a good minute to come up, to process Sherlock’s words, to feel Sherlock’s wool-clad erection pressed against his arse.

“You’ve been good, so good. I’m going to take you down now.”

Greg barely noticed as Sherlock unbuckled the cuffs. His fingertips had gone tingly. Sherlock rubbed his hands. Greg let his arms fall to his sides. He sank forward into the leather pad at the middle of the cross. It was sweaty.

Sherlock unbuckled his ankles next. “Lean against me,” he said, taking Greg into his arms.

Greg allowed himself to be half lead, half carried to the bed and laid down on it. The fitted sheet was a high quality cotton. It was crisp and cool against his sweaty skin.

Sherlock removed the blindfold again. “Look at me, pet.”

Greg opened his eyes. Sherlock was looking at him. His hairline glistened with sweat. He was smiling. Greg smiled back. Sherlock ran his fingers down Greg’s cheek, cupped his chin. He leaned down and kissed him, biting his lower lip. It was a very different kind of pain from the flogging, and the sharpness of it pulled him out of the fog he’d been in. Sherlock broke the kiss.

“Up,” he said. “Hands and knees.”

Greg reluctantly rose up onto all fours. The bed was so crisp and cool. But Sherlock might want to fuck him now. His cock twitched.

“You want to be fucked, don’t you, pet,” said Sherlock.

“Yes, sir.” The word didn’t feel so strange, now. Sherlock was unquestionably in charge, here. Yes, Greg could shout ‘red,’ and it would be over, but Sherlock was the one who was driving everything. And that felt surprisingly good.

“Such a slutty thing. So eager for me.” Sherlock stroked a finger across Greg’s cleft. His hole twitched. “All in due time, pretty. First, I remember you saying you wanted to experience the paddle.”

Shit. Greg was fairly sure it would hurt more than the whips, and the last one had been pretty bad. “I did, sir.”

“Do you still want it?”

“I do, sir.”

“Good. And you’ll beg me for it. But not yet.”

Sherlock went to the far wall and pulled something down. It was a metal bar with four cuffs, two in the middle and one on each end. His hands and feet were going in there. And then Sherlock was going to beat him. Greg’s mouth went dry.

“I love these,” said Sherlock. “The perfect thing to keep you from wriggling away.” He set it down behind Greg. “Spread for me.”

Greg opened his legs. His cock was beginning to harden.

Sherlock put his left foot in the cuff. Really it was more like a shackle. These were completely different from the ones attached to the cross. They were mounted on a swivel and attached to the bar at one end, and made out of metal. No padding at all. And they locked. Sherlock slid the lock down and turned the key in place. Then he repeated the gesture with Greg’s other foot.

“Now your hands,” said Sherlock.

Greg wasn’t sure how to comply. His hands were currently supporting his weight.

Sherlock slapped his arse, hard. “I said give me your hands. Put your face down on the bed.”

Greg lowered himself to his elbows, then laid his face sideways on the bed. He reached his hands backwards until they were level with the bar. Sherlock locked his wrists into the cuffs at the middle.

Greg swallowed. He was completely exposed. Facedown, arse up, ready to take Sherlock’s beating.

“I’m going to hit you now. But I want to fuck you after, and I want you to be ready for me.”

Shit. Sherlock didn’t really expect Greg to be able to dilate his arsehole on command, did he? He’d heard of submissives orgasming on command, but not that.

Sherlock walked to the foot of the bed and opened the chest.

Oh. Stupid. Sherlock was going to use a toy. Greg had never actually had a plug up his arse. Most of his encounters with men before Lorraine had been no frills, and when he played with his own arse he used his fingers.

He couldn’t turn his head enough to see what kind of toy Sherlock had selected. He hoped it wasn’t too big.

“Here we are, pet. This will hold you nice and open for me.” The click of a cap flicked, and then a dollop of cold dropped onto Greg’s hole.

“Squeeze your arsehole. Tight as you can.”

Greg hesitated. That seemed counter-intuitive. Was Sherlock trying to make it hurt more?

Sherlock slapped him again.

Greg squeezed down hard. He felt something press against his opening.

“Harder,” said Sherlock. “Hold me back.”

Greg clenched his muscles tight as he could.

“Good. Now let go.”

Greg relaxed. And Sherlock pushed the plug home so easily it was like his arse had swallowed it up.

“Good. See how easy that was? You have to trust me. I know what’s best for you, pet.”

The plug was silicone, probably. It wasn’t cold and it had the tiniest bit of give to it. It fit just inside his arse and the flange nestled between his cheeks. Greg experimented with clenching his muscles around it.

Sherlock slapped him. “Slut. Did I say you could do that?”

“No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

Sherlock spanked him. First one cheek, than the other. Greg found it very difficult not to clench around the plug, especially because doing so had felt good. The blows came down, harder, faster. It stung. Greg’s eyes were watering again. And he knew Sherlock was just getting started.

“For the paddle, you’re going to beg.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now. Beg.”

“Please may I have the paddle, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because you wanted it, sir. I want to know how it feels, sir.”

“You did want it. Now you’re not so sure, are you?”

Truthfully, he was terrified. But he wasn’t about to back down. “I still want to try, sir.”

“Brave thing.”

Sherlock went to the back wall again and returned with a paddle. He set it on the bed in front of Greg’s face. It was a little over a foot long and a handspan wide, made of wood, and studded with holes.

“Do you see this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you want this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Beg me, then.”

“Please will you paddle me, sir.”

“Do you want me to bruise you?” 

“Yes, I want that, sir.”

“Will you cry for me?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Sherlock laughed. “I do.”

He took his place behind Greg. “This will hurt.” Then he brought the paddle down. It wooshed through the air before making contact with Greg’s arse.

This was a new kind of pain. It stung, even more than Sherlock’s hand, but the blow went deeper into his flesh. Greg could _feel_ the holes, as the paddle bit deeper around the edges. The pain kept sinking, even after Sherlock pulled the paddle back. And then he struck him again. And again. Greg whimpered.

“That’s good. Make noise if you want, pet.”

Greg moaned.

“Good. Clench down on the plug it you want. That’s a good pet.”

He hit him again. His flesh was already tender, and the additional blows felt like they were pressing deeper. His eyes were watering again. He squeezed around the plug. It wasn’t in deep enough to touch his prostate, but it felt nice around his rim.

“Good, that’s it, take it.” Sherlock aimed lower this time, across his thighs. He brought the paddle down across both legs. Greg hissed.

Sherlock delivered a few more strokes across the thighs, lighter ones, then went back to Greg’s arse, hard. Greg cried out.

“Good. Do that again.”

Greg groaned. His arse felt like fire and ached deeply all at once.

“I’m going to beat you until you cry for me. And then I’m going to fuck you.”

Sherlock hit him again.

The word was almost on his lips. _Yellow_. If he said yellow, Sherlock would stop hitting him. But it wouldn’t be over. Maybe Sherlock would still fuck him. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Would he be angry? He shouldn’t be, right, not for using his safeword?

“Cry for me, pet. Cry for me and I’ll fuck you.”

His eyes were stinging. Sherlock hit him again. Greg let out a sob.

Sherlock set the paddle down.

“Oh, you were good,” Sherlock graped his arse, massaging the bruised skin. It ached. “You were so brave for me.”

Tears were leaking from the corner of Greg’s eyelids. Sherlock had wanted to see him cry. Sherlock was a fucking sadist.

“That’s it. Let it out. My brave pet. Crying for me.”

Sherlock grasped the plug firmly and pulled it out. Greg yelped. It hurt. And it felt like he was shitting himself.

The metallic slip of a zipper pull brought him back. Sherlock was going to fuck him. There was the slide of flesh on flesh as Sherlock took himself in hand, then the rustle of a condom packet opening, the flip-snap of the lube again, and more cold as Sherlock poured lube directly into his hole. Greg shivered.

Sherlock fussed with the condom. “Can you take me? Can you take me to the hilt on the first thrust? I think you can.”

Sherlock lined himself up, swirled the head twice, and pushed home.

“Ugh!” Greg cried out. It burned.

Sherlock held still. “Good. Good pet, you took it. Now relax.”

That was impossible. He had a cock up his arse. And it burned, fuck how it burned.

Sherlock began to move in slow, stirring motions. “Take it, pet, take me.” He grabbed Greg’s hips, digging his fingers into the bruises.

Greg meweld.

Sherlock snapped his hips, thrusting in and out. The wool of his trousers brushed against Greg’s wounded arse. Sherlock himself was still fully clothed. And Greg was bound and naked was getting thoroughly fucked. The burn subsided, or at any rate began to give way to pleasure as Sherlock thrust. He held Greg tightly, riding him, pressing down on the small of his back and oh, oh, that was the spot. Greg remembered why he’d wanted this, why he’d liked this.

Sherlock kept fucking him, hard and fast, rolling and snapping his hips, taking Greg, and then he put one leg up on the bed for more leverage and fuck, fuck he was being fucked. Sherlock lifted his foot again and put it down on Greg’s nape. Greg gasped. Sherlock’s shoe was on his neck and head. He hadn’t expected that. He felt used. Dirty. Owned.

“You’re mine,” Sherlock snarled. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, sir.” Greg stammered. He could barely breathe. Sherlock was pressing his face into the mattress.

“You said you wanted to be used and taken.”

“I did, sir.”

“Do you feel used? Do you feel taken?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock thrust his hips hard, pressed his foot down. “Who’s taking you?”

“You are, sir.”

“Who owns you?”

“You do, sir.”

“You said you wanted to fucked while you were bound and bleeding. Are you bound?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you bleeding?”

The last whip had felt like it cut his back. “I don’t know, sir.”

Sherlock laughed. “You’re not bleeding. Yet.” Sherlock abruptly stopped fucking him. A distinctive click hit Greg’s ears. A butterfly knife being flipped open.

Fuck. Fuck they hadn’t talked about cutting. But he’d said he wanted to be bleeding.

“Who owns you?”

Where was the knife? He couldn’t see it, with his face down. “You do, sir.”

“Who knows I own you?”

“No one, sir.”

“There’s where you’re wrong. Wiggins brought you here. He knows what a greedy little slut you are. I stole one of Mycroft’s cars. He knows where the car is. He knows what this room is.”

Fuck. Fuck holy fuck.

“Mycroft and Wiggins know you’re my pet slut. Now, I’m going to carve my initials in your shoulder. And then everyone will know you’re mine.”

The point of the blade pressed into his skin.

Fuck. They hadn’t talked about this they hadn’t talked about this Sherlock promised he fucking promised. “Red.” Greg gasped. The air was pressed out of his lungs. “Red.”

Sherlock lifted his foot and pulled out of Greg’s arse. “Greg. Greg, it’s alright. You’re alright. You’re not bleeding.” He stroked the back of Greg’s neck. “It’s a trainer. The blade has no edge. Would you like to see it?"

“You said… you said you would….” Greg gasped.

“I know. I lied. To frighten you.”

Sherlock’s fingers closed around his ankle. He inserted the key into the lock and opened it. Then he continued with Greg’s wrists and his other ankle. He pulled the bar free and threw it to the foot of the bed.

Greg curled up into a ball. God, this was pathetic.

Sherlock lay on the bed and curled around him. “I’m sorry. That was too much. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“’Sokay,” said Greg.

“Here.” Sherlock placed the knife on the bed in front of Greg. It was a butterfly knife, flipped open. But the blade was blunt edged and had holes in it. The point was smooth. _That_ was what he’d been afraid of. But it had felt so real, in the moment, when Sherlock had pressed the edge to his skin. Greg closed the blade and held it. The heft of the blade was comforting.

Sherlock kissed his nape. “Even if we’d agreed to try bloodplay, I wouldn’t have used a real knife during sex. It’s too dangerous.”

Greg nodded. “Okay.”

“I was never going to cut you. Just trace my initials.”

“I’m sorry.” Greg felt bad for ending the scene. For being scared.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. I wanted you to use your safeword if things got too intense.”

“I should have trusted you. Not to do anything we didn’t agree on. You promised.”

“I did. And I keep my word.” Sherlock stroked Greg’s sides. “You did well. Using your safeword does not mean you failed. I’m proud of you. You took so much.”

“I wanted you to… finish.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll be fine.”

Greg rolled over and looked at Sherlock. He was still fully clothed, except for his condom-wrapped dick, which protruded from his trousers, and was still hard. “Please can we finish? Just regular sex?”

Sherlock kissed his forehead. “If that’s what you want.”

“I do, yeah.”

“Will that make you feel better?”

“Yeah. Want you in me again.”

Sherlock rolled Greg onto his back and climbed on top of him. Greg spread his legs and tilted his pelvis up. Sherlock slid home. Oh. Oh, yes, he’d wanted this. Face to face, Sherlock looking into his eyes. Sherlock kissing him.

Sherlock broke the kiss and rolled his hips into Greg’s. He rocked back and forth, in a smooth, easy motion.

Greg moaned. “Oh God, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nibbled at his neck. He swirled his hips, stirring Greg, scraping across his prostate. Greg wrapped his legs tight around Sherlock’s back. He ached all over from the beatings, and his arse was sore, but it was a good type of soreness. It felt lovely.

“I’m sorry,” said Sherlock. “I’m tired. It takes work, being terrifying. I don’t think I can last much longer.”

“That’s alright,” said Greg. He slid his hand into the tight space between their bellies and encircled his cock.

Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows, giving Greg space.

“Yes. Yes, let me see.”

Greg wanked himself slowly as Sherlock watched, his expression rapt. He kept his rocking rhythm, rubbing Greg’s prostate. It wouldn’t be long, now. Greg stroked himself just how he liked, rubbing the foreskin over the head and twisting at the top. He could feel a tightness gathering in his calves and balls. “Are you close?” he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock made a hasty nod.

Greg stroked harder, faster, reaching for it--and then pulsed onto his belly.

Sherlock snapped his hips erratically and followed soon after. He slumped forward, messing his shirt with Greg’s come.

Greg sighed heavily and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. His back ached.

Sherlock lay on him, a dead weight on Greg’s chest.

“Can’t breathe.”

“Sorry.” Sherlock rolled off him.

“Have you got any cigarettes?” Greg asked.

“No. Sorry. I’ve quit. I thought you had, too.”

“I have, just… had a craving.”

“Sorry. Should have anticipated you might want one.”

“It’s okay.”

“Is it?” asked Sherlock. Greg rolled over and looked at him. His face was open, vulnerable. He wasn’t asking about the cigarettes.

“Yeah. Yeah it is.”

He looked relieved. “I’m sorry. I pushed you too far.”

“You were fine. I asked for it. And you warned me you could be terrifying.”

“I know, I still…. You don’t want to do this again.”

Greg swallowed. He hadn’t wanted to say it, not tonight. “Probably not. I wanted to understand, and I think I do, now. But it’s not… really my thing.”

“I was too much.”

“No. You were just right.”

“I’m always too much. It’s why I don’t top often.”

“You told me not to apologize. Don’t you apologize either. You did nothing wrong. You did what I asked for and when I got in over my head and asked you to stop you stopped.”

“Maybe if I hadn’t--”

“Shhh.” Greg pressed a finger to Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock bit him. “Don’t ‘shhh’ me.”

“You’re thinking too hard.”

Sherlock snorted.

Greg rolled onto his back. “What you said about Wiggins. And Mycroft. Knowing. That was true, right?”

“Yes. Does that bother you?”

“I guess not. I knew it was Wiggins and I didn’t safeword. Mycroft--I guess I should have known. I thought it was him in the car at first. And I was afraid he’d found out and was going to send me to Yemen or something ….”

“Mycroft has known from the beginning. He approves. Well, of our relationship anyway. I don’t know that he approves of ….” Sherlock swept his hand, gesturing to the room. “But he knows.”

“That I’m your pet slut.”

Sherlock winced. “That was just me talking bollocks.”

“And you saying you owned me?”

“Also bollocks. Of course I don’t own you, Greg.”

That felt… disappointing. And Greg wasn’t sure why, or what he thought about that. “What if--”

“Yes?”

“What if I wanted to be yours?”

Sherlock sat up and looked down at him. “You are. And I am yours. I just don’t ‘own you,’ is all.”

“Really? You mean that?”

“Of course. I did say we were in a relationship.”

“Yes, but I didn’t know you… cared.”

Sherlock looked hurt. “I thought we were beyond you thinking I’m a sociopath by now.”

“We are. Of course we are. I just thought….” What? That Sherlock would do this and it would mean nothing? That really seemed unfair, looking at him. “Nevermind.”

“I do care. Not… in general. But for you.”

“Good. Because I care for you too. A lot.”

Sherlock smiled. “That’s good.”

Greg smiled back. “It is, isn’t it.”

“And we’re good?” asked Sherlock.

“We’re good.”


	9. Just Shagging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Upped the chapter count. I forgot the Prologue was a chapter.

Greg had Sherlock bent over the arm of the sofa in 221b, pulling his hair to arch his back while he pounded into him. Sherlock was crying out with each thrust. Greg knew he was hurting him, but Sherlock wasn’t safewording, so, he let go of Sherlock’s hair and let him fall forward, grabbing his hips and snapping brutally into him. Sherlock keened. Greg wondered if he shouldn’t stop and get the ball gag. Mrs Hudson could almost certainly hear everything. But he didn’t want to stop. Sherlock was so hot, so tight. 

The doorbell rang. Greg froze mid-thrust.

They heard footsteps on the stairs. Mrs Hudson heading down to answer the door.

Greg pulled out slowly. He carefully shoved his condom-clad dick back into his pants and pulled up his trousers. Sherlock scrambled up from the sofa and did the same. It was still painfully obvious they’d been fucking moments before. Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed pink and his curls were wild. He ran his fingers through them, biting back curses.

Greg ran to the kitchen and put his ear to the door.

“Of course it’s lovely to see you dear, but you really might want to call before coming over now. Sherlock and the inspector are having an intimate moment. You know how it is.”

Shit.

Sherlock followed him into the kitchen and splashed water on his face. Then he pushed past Greg and down the stairs.

“Yes, thank you Mrs Hudson, that’s quite enough. If you wouldn’t mind taking Rosie for a bit John and I will go upstairs.”

Shit. _Shit_.

Greg retreated to the sitting room and glanced around. He shoved the torn condom packet and the lube bottle between the sofa cushions.

John and Sherlock came up moments later. Sherlock’s face had hardened. John’s eyes were wide and blinking, and a smile curved around the corners of his lips. Whether he was shocked or amused, Greg couldn’t tell. He stared at Greg for a few moments. Greg had no idea what his own expression must look like.

“I guess… congratulations are in order?” John said at last. “I had no idea you two were dating. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We’re not,” said Sherlock.

Greg felt his mouth fall open, shut it immediately.

“We’re just shagging, and I don’t remember it being any of your business who I’m shagging.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ….”

“Do shut up, John. I think it would be best for everyone if we all just pretended this incident never happened. Anyway Lestrade was just leaving.”

“I was?” anger crept into Greg’s voice.

“Yes. You were.” Sherlock’s eyes locked on his. They were flinty.

“Right. Yes. Duty calls.” Greg made his way past John and went out the front door. His head was spinning. John had walked in on them. And Sherlock had denied they were together. He collected his coat from the hallway and walked down the stairs. Sherlock had thrown him out. He tried to hail a cab but lacked Sherlock’s talent for making them appear whenever he wanted. He walked to the Marylebone tube station and made his way home.

* * *

Greg was sitting on his couch, eating pad thai and watching Leyton Orient get slaughtered by Barnet. 3-0, Christ, this was shameful. He’d debated calling Sherlock, but fuck that. Sherlock should be the one to call him, and he’d better have a damn good explanation for his behavior when he did.

Eventually, after he’d switched the telly to Animal Planet in frustration, his phone pinged. He glanced at it.

_Greg. I’m sorry about this afternoon. John took me by surprise.-SH_

Well. Sherlock had used his correct name _and_ said he was sorry. It still wasn’t enough.

_Pick up your phone and call me, Sherlock._

His phone rang.

“Hey,” said Greg.

“Greg,” said Sherlock.

“What the fuck was that?”

Sherlock sighed. “I was taken off guard. John’s visit was unexpected.”

“And that means we’re ‘just shagging’?”

“I know that remark upset you. I still think it was the right thing for me to have said.”

“You told me you cared for me. That we were in a relationship.”

“I do. We are. But surely you realize that Scotland Yard would frown on it if they knew about our situation?”

Greg chewed the inside of his cheek. He had thought about it. Worried about it.

“They can’t know. If they did, I wouldn’t be allowed to work on any of your cases. You know this.”

“I agree you couldn’t work my cases anymore. But what about DI Hopkins? You work with her sometimes, maybe you could work with her all the time, instead.”

“But I like working with you.”

“I like working with you, too. But I’d rather _be_ with you.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

“You don’t feel the same.”

“You know how important the Work is to me.”

“I do, yeah. But I thought that I was important to you, too. Maybe stupidly, I thought I was more important.”

Sherlock went quiet again. When at last he spoke, his voice was soft. “I care for you. I do. But the Work has to come first. You know what happens to me without it. I get … bored. And then I use, and then you …. You don’t want me like that.”

“This is blackmail.”

“No! This is the truth. And you know it.”

Greg bit his cheek again. He did know it. Sherlock had been clean for a while. But once an addict, always an addict, and Greg knew working was what kept him clean. He did. But this sucked. Greg had never exactly been out at work. He hadn’t needed to be. He’d been with Lorraine. But now he was with Sherlock, and he didn’t want to hide that. It felt like lying. It felt like Sherlock was ashamed of him. Even though he knew that was nonsense. Sherlock barely understood the concept of shame. But he certainly wasn’t above shading the truth if it meant he could get what he wanted, and right now what he wanted was to work Greg’s cases and to shag him. And the only way to have both was to keep the shagging bit quiet.

“Fine. But I don’t like it.”

“Thank you. I mean it. This means a great deal to me and I won’t forget it. And ….” Sherlock dropped his voice, “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Yes,” Greg agreed. “You will.”


	10. Second Choice

The next time Greg showed up to 221b, he opened the foyer to find Mrs Hudson’s door open. The smell of fresh baked goods wafted from her kitchen.

“Greg, dear” she walked out into the hall. “Won’t you come in and have a slice of my courgette bread? It’s lovely.”

“Sure,” said Greg. “Why don’t I just head up and grab Sherlock and then we’ll both come down.”

“Oh, you know Sherlock won’t eat, hon. I think he’s in the middle of a case, or an experiment. But why don’t you come in and have a slice?”

Greg didn’t want to be rude, so he came inside and took a bite. The bread was soft and spongy, still warm from the oven, and the courgette flavour was masked by vanilla and cinnamon.

“Do you like it?” asked Mrs Hudson.

“Very much, yes.”

Mrs Hudson cut a second slice and placed it on another plate. “Take this up to John, would you?”

Greg stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. “John?”

“Yes, John’s here. I think he’s helping Sherlock.”

A knot formed around the courgette bread. ‘Helping’ Sherlock. “I see. Well, I’ll go up and see if they need any more help.”

She smiled. “Thank you, dear.”

Greg carried both slices of courgette bread up the stairs, his heart dropping further down with every step up. John was here, and Rosie wasn’t. John had made arrangements for her so he could come over to see Sherlock. And Sherlock had lied to John about his relationship with Greg. Because he still had feelings for John, undoubtedly. And Mrs Hudson had stalled him on his way up. Because she knew, or suspected, that he’d walk in on something if he got there too soon. He couldn’t really blame the old lady for covering for Sherlock. He should probably thank her, actually. Greg had walked in on Lorraine and the PE teacher. It wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat.

Just to be sure, he balanced both plates on his left arm and banged on the door with his right. “Greg here,” he called, before opening the door and walking in.

Sherlock and John were in the sitting room, in their respective chairs. Sherlock had his legs crossed, and his hands under his chin in his thinking pose, eyes closed, but there were two spots of color high on his cheeks. John was sitting with his legs folded in the figure four position and looked, well, smug. Greg set down both plates on the coffee table and sat in the client chair.

“Hello John,” he said, voice measured. “Mrs Hudson asked me to bring this to you.”

“Oh,” John glanced down. “Thanks.” He took a large bite of courgette bread. “This is good.”

Greg ignored him, staring at Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He met Greg’s briefly, then dropped and flicked them away. “John,” he cleared his throat. “You should go.”

John took another bite. “Sure.” He got up, smoothing his shirt. “Bye, Greg.”

Greg didn’t watch him go. John’s footsteps leaving the sitting room and heading into the kitchen filled the silence that hung between him and Sherlock.

The silence continued after John was gone. Greg wasn’t going to be the one to speak first. It seemed Sherlock wouldn’t be, either. Greg ate the courgette bread to give himself something to do. It tasted like cotton wool. 

Finally Sherlock lowered his arms to the armrests of his chair and said, “I promised I’d tell you. If there was anyone else. So ….”

Greg set down his fork. “You also promised me no other relationships. Just sex.”

“I know.”

“Don’t tell me this was just sex.”

“I didn’t have sex with him.”

“I don’t care.”

Sherlock unfolded his legs and set them on the floor. “You clearly do.”

Greg took another bite of bread. He chewed slowly, feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him, swallowed. “Let me clarify. I don’t care whether you and John had sex. I do care that you’re clearly still in love with him.”

Sherlock didn’t deny it. “I thought John was straight.”

“Yeah, well, I told you he wasn’t.”

“Greg,” Sherlock looked up at him. “I care for you. I do. But John ….”

“You love John.”

Sherlock swallowed. “I never thought this was a possibility before. And now …. I have to see where this goes.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. This is my fault. I knew you were still carrying a torch for him and he for you. I never should have gotten involved.”

Sherlock looked at him. His face was long; his brows furrowed and his lips turned down at the corners. “I wish you didn’t feel that way. You were here before John. I wanted you for a long time. And what we had was real. I hope that someday, you’ll think that what we had was good.”

Greg shrugged. “I don’t know. I remember you chasing after me, yeah. When you were bored. And then John came along, and I guess he was a better distraction, and I resigned myself to us never happening. But then the two of you had your rough patch, and I thought … well, I thought I was okay with being your second choice. But now you have your first choice back and it doesn’t feel so good anymore.”

“I never thought of you as my second choice.”

“Don’t lie to me, Sherlock. Please.” His throat was tight. Burning. His eyes prickled. He swallowed and blinked hard. He was not going to cry in front of Sherlock. He had maybe one shred of dignity left, and damn it, he was going to hold on to it. He forced the last bite of courgette bread. Sherlock watched, misery written plain on his face. Well. At least Greg wasn’t the only one who was hurting.

Greg finished chewing and set his fork down. “You should finish John’s slice of courgette bread. It’s good.”

“Greg.”

“Maybe it’s best if you went back to ‘Lestrade.’” Greg stood up stiffly.

Sherlock stood as well. “Lestrade, then. I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Yeah, well. You can’t always get what you want.” He turned towards the kitchen.

“Please.”

Greg turned around. “What?”

“Promise me.” Sherlock bit his lip. “That this isn’t goodbye.”

Rage flared within him. “What, you still want my cases?”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. “No. I mean, yes, of course, but I wouldn’t ….”

“Good. You should work with Hopkins.”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course.”

“Goodbye, Sherlock.” Greg stuck out his hand.

Sherlock stared at it, then looked up at Greg’s face. Sherlock’s eyes were wet.

Greg stood a few more moments with his hand out, then dropped it. He turned around and walked through the kitchen, feeling Sherlock’s eyes on his back. Then he opened the door, closed it behind him, and trudged down the stairs, past Mrs Hudson’s flat. She had wanted Sherlock to be with John. Everyone wanted Sherlock to be with John. He’d been a fool, trying to come between them. He glanced back up the stairs, half-expecting to see Sherlock’s hangdog face sticking out the front door. But the hallway was empty. He made his way down the remaining stairs and into the street.


	11. I Miss You

“You realize, Mr McFarlane, how bad this looks for you?” Greg stared at the young man across the metal table from him. Greg was used to interrogating suspects. But he felt off, today. All he could think of was John.

_I didn’t just hit him. I kicked him. While he was down._

What if John hurt Sherlock again? What if Sherlock let him?

“I know,” said McFarlane. He was a young lawyer, lanky, with mousy brown hair and square-framed glasses. “Look, I don’t know why Mr Oldacre made me the beneficiary of his will. We’re not blood relatives.”

“Did you ask him?”

“Yes. And he said it was because I was ‘the closest thing he had to a son.’ He was engaged to my mother, you know.”

Greg hadn’t known. But he made a note of it. “So you drew up the will for him.”

“I did, yeah.”

“He bequeathed you close to two million quid. And not seventy two hours later, he goes missing.”

“Yes.”

“And SOCO found _your bloody thumbprint_ in his office, along with a copious amount of blood on the floor.”

“I have no idea how that thumbprint got there.”

“You’re sure it’s not because your _thumb_ was there?”

“I know it’s suspicious. But I’m telling you, I didn’t do anything to him. He wasn't just a client. He was like a father to me. I would never.”

“If you didn’t kill him, any idea where he might be?”

“No. I’ve no idea where he might have gotten to. I didn’t know he was missing until I saw it this morning on the news.”

And for some stupid reason, Greg believed him. Copper’s intuition, but McFarlane didn’t strike him as a liar. But all the evidence suggested he was. He wished he could consult Sherlock. But that was out of the question, now. He hadn't spoken to Sherlock in weeks. He’d just have to resort to old fashioned legwork.

* * *

Greg sat at his desk, reading Jonas Oldacre’s file and eating a bagel. There was something off about Oldacre. Mrs McFarlane had broken off the engagement. His ex wife had accused him of domestic violence. That gave him pause. And his finances were not so rosy as they’d originally appeared. He had assets, yes. But he had even bigger debts. Debts a man might be willing to fake his death to avoid? Greg didn’t know. But it was worth looking into.

A knock rattled his door.

He looked up. Standing outside his window was DI Hopkins, in a sharp suit with her hair pulled back, carrying two coffees in a takeaway tray.

“Come in,” he said.

She opened the door, set the coffees on Greg’s desk, and handed him one of them.

“Ah, bless you,” he said, taking a sip. It was still hot, and worlds better than the sludge they brewed at NSY. “What’s the occasion?”

“Sherlock’s offered to help me with the Randall Gang case,” said Hopkins.

“That’s great,” said Greg, taking another bite of his bagel.

“You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“No, not at all,” he said around a mouthful of bagel, “why would I?”

“It’s just that he usually works with you, but recently, he hasn’t worked with you at all, and I don’t know, I was wondering if you had a falling out, or something.”

“What?” he swallowed. “No. Nothing like that.”

“You’re sure?” She raised both dark eyebrows.

“Yeah. I just got tired of everyone saying that my solve rate’s only what it is because of him. I told him I’d like to stand on my own two feet for a while.”

“I thought you didn’t care about that as long as you got the bad guys.”

“Well. I’m getting older, and I’m not exactly getting promoted.”

“And you think Sherlock’s to blame?”

Greg set down his bagel. “ _Blame_ is too strong a word. But yeah, I think all my work with him hasn’t exactly endeared me to the Chief Super. Anyway, the point is, I don’t care if you work with Sherlock.”

“Okay.” She smiled. “Thanks.” She ducked out of his office with a small wave.

Greg watched her leave. Perhaps he should give Sherlock a case or two to throw off suspicion, since his not working with him was drawing the wrong kind of attention. But he couldn’t bear to see Sherlock again. He didn’t blame Sherlock, not really. Who could blame someone for wanting a chance at true love? But he was hurt, all the same. He and Sherlock had been…. Well, whatever they’d been, it was over now. Greg took another bite of bagel, washed it down with hot coffee. Maybe someday, he’d be able to stomach seeing Sherlock at one of his crime scenes again. Until then, Hopkins could have him. John could have him. And Greg would have to figure out what happened to Oldacre on his own.

* * *

Greg headed to Blackheath to meet McFarlane’s mother, Marie. He felt that she was the key to all of this, somehow. She agreed to sit with him over tea. Her small sitting room was bright with the afternoon light.

“Has Mr Oldacre contacted you since his disappearance?” Greg asked.

“No. No, I haven’t heard from him in years.”

“What about your son?”

“Haven’t heard from him either. We’re estranged.”

“Why?”

“Because he continues to work for that bastard. Knowing what he did to me.”

“And what did he do to you?”

She stirred her tea. “Same thing he did to the former Mrs Oldacre.”

Greg nodded. “He was violent?”

She set down her spoon. “Only when he was drunk. But that was nearly every evening, close to the end.”

“You broke off the engagement.”

“I did.” She looked up at him, eyes hard. “Best decision I ever made.”

“But your son remained … attached to him.”

“Mr McFarlane died when Brad was four. I never remarried. Brad was desperate for a father figure.”

“Were you aware that Mr Oldacre made him the sole beneficiary of his will?”

“I wasn’t. But it doesn’t surprise me. They were thick as thieves.”

“Were you aware that your son is the primary suspect in Mr Oldacre’s suspected murder?”

“What?” Her eyes widened. “No, that can’t be. Besides, I thought he was missing, not murdered.”

“Your son’s bloody thumbprint was found in Mr Oldacre’s office. Along with enough blood that we're treating this as a murder investigation.”

“I just can’t imagine that Brad would harm him. He looked up to Jonas.”

Greg nodded. He was inclined to think that Brad McFarlane hadn’t murdered Oldacre either. But of course a mother would argue for the innocence of her son.

“Thank you for your time, Mrs McFarlane.”

She shrugged. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more helpful.”

So was Greg. Blackheath had been something of a dead end. He had hoped Marie would have shed more light on the case, but all she had told him was what he already knew: Jonas Oldacre was an abusive arsehole. And Brad McFarlane had cared about him anyway. Too much to kill him.

He wished again that he could ask Sherlock for advice. He needed to stop thinking like that. To start standing on his own two feet, like he’d told Hopkins.

He left Marie McFarlane’s place and caught the 5:46 PM train from Blackheath to London. He was passing the time playing Candy Crush when his text alert pinged.

_I miss you--SH_

Greg stared at the text. No. No, he was not going to be strung along. If Sherlock bloody Holmes was having second thoughts, that was his loss. Greg was not going to try to come between him and John again. He switched off his phone and slept the rest of the journey.


	12. Not a Cheater

Greg couldn’t stop thinking about Sherlock. No matter how hard he threw himself into the Oldacre case, no matter how fast or hard he ran, no matter how many times he masturbated to literally anything or anyone else. He was worried about him. Sherlock had said he missed him. Did that mean that all was not well in paradise? Was John mistreating him?

He found himself walking down the hall to Hopkins office. He could see her through her windows, surrounded by her well-tended plants. He knocked.

“Come in!” she called.

“Sorry, I don’t have any coffee,” said Greg.

“What can I help you with?”

“How’s he doing?”

“Who?”

“Sherlock.”

“Oh, he’s fine. Randal Gang got arrested in New York, which is good for us, I guess, but it means they couldn’t have committed the burglary and homicide at the Abbey Grange like Sherlock thought, so we're pursuing new leads.” She frowned. “You’re sure nothing happened between you?”

Greg threw up his hands.“Fine. You’re right. We had a little spat. When I told Sherlock I wanted to work on my own, we had a small tiff. I just wanted to make sure he seemed… all right.”

She nodded. “Yeah, he seems fine. He and John have been tagging along at my crime scenes, giving SOCO hell.”

Greg smiled. “He does that.”

“You should let him in on one of yours. Just a little one.”

“Sherlock won’t consult unless it’s at least a 7.”

“Yeah, well. Take him out for a drink, then. Smooth things over.”

“Since when are you so concerned about me and Sherlock?”

“I’m not. Just. You seem to be.”

He shrugged. “I’m not. If you say he’s fine, I won’t worry.”

And he wouldn’t. Sherlock was fine. Except Sherlock was texting him. Maybe he should call Mycroft. No, that would be humiliating. Better just to wait and see how things played out.

* * *

Greg’s text alert pinged. He opened his eyes and stared at his bedside clock. 3:42. Fuck, buggering fuck. He picked up his phone.

_If you want to know how I am, you could just ask me instead of interrogating Hopkins.--SH_

Shit. Had she told Sherlock Greg had asked after him? Or had Sherlock just found out, in that uncanny way of his. He slowly texted back, stopping to correct several spelling mistakes he made with his sleepy fingers.

_And if you want to talk to me, you could call instead of texting ‘I miss you.’_

His phone rang. Greg answered it.

“I do miss you.” Sherlock’s voice was low.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“You’re with John.”

“Yes. I am.” There was something bitter in Sherlock’s voice.

“Are you two having a domestic?”

Sherlock laughed.

“Are you high?”

He laughed again. “Maybe.”

Shit. “You are. Sherlock, you can’t do this.”

“Why not? I think about you all the time. I know you think about me, too.”

“Because you left me, Sherlock.” Greg rolled onto his back, putting his phone on the pillow on speaker. “Or did you forget about that?”

“I’m sorry.” The line went quiet for a moment.

Greg started to worry that Sherlock had passed out.

Finally Sherlock said, “I made a mistake.”

Greg swallowed. “What are you saying, Sherlock?”

“I thought I loved him.”

Greg arched an eyebrow. “And you don’t anymore?”

“I’m not sure. How do you know if you love someone?”

“Are you serious?”

Silence.

“You’re serious. Okay. I guess you know you love someone when you want what’s best for them and you want them to be happy. Even when it’s not what makes you happy.” Like when you let your lover go to be with the man they've been pining after for years.

“Then I guess I love him. I want John to be happy even though he’s not what makes me happy.”

“Wait, John doesn’t make you happy?”

Sherlock was quiet.

“Has he hurt you again?”

“No.” Another pause. “Well, not without my consent.”

“So you do BDSM stuff with him.”

“Yes. It’s better with you.”

He should not be having this conversation. John was with Sherlock. And yet it made him feel just a little better, knowing that Sherlock preferred him. “Why?”

“Because it’s a game with you. He means it.”

Greg’s stomach turned at the thought of John hitting Sherlock, pulling his hair, forcing him to his knees--

“What do you mean? Sherlock, if he’s hurting you--”

Sherlock laughed again. “You’ll what? Arrest him?”

“Damn right I will.”

“John is not… you don’t need to worry about domestic violence, Greg. He doesn’t hurt me except in the ways I ask him to. But he’s still angry with me. He never forgave me. Not for leaving, not for coming back. You did.”

“Of course I did. I know you jumped to save my life, and I’m grateful, and I was so glad to see you home, safe and sound--” He remembers the feel of Sherlock in his arms, warm and strong and real and yes, he’d said, ‘you bastard,’ and he’d meant it, but mostly he’d just been so relieved to see Sherlock alive again.

“John will never forgive me. I’ll always owe him. Be trying to prove to him that I’m sorry, that I won’t leave again. It’s exhausting.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Meet me somewhere.”

“Sherlock, no. You’re with John. And I’m not a cheater.”

“John cheated on Mary, did you know that?”

Both of Greg’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “No. It doesn’t make a difference.”

“Not even if I tell you it was with my sister?”

“Wait--what? Eurus?”

“Yes. Well, he didn’t know it was Eurus, she disguised herself. He met her on a bus. She made eyes at him and he was intrigued. Texted her for weeks. At night while Mary was up with Rosie.”

“That’s fucked up. And it’s exactly why I’m not sleeping with you. I’ve been cheated on and it sucks. I won’t do it to anyone else. Including John.”

Sherlock sighed. “What if I left John?”

Greg swallowed. He’d fantasized about this. Sherlock leaving John, coming back to him. He’d told himself it was foolish, stopped himself from thinking about it. And now it was happening, and he didn’t feel victorious, or overjoyed--just… wary.

“Sherlock, you’re high. You and John are going through a rough patch, is all. And when things get rough, your impulse is to self-destruct. I don’t want to be the way you destroy your relationship with John.”

“That’s what you think this is? Me being self-destructive.”

“I know it’s harsh, but you need to hear it. Every time things start going good for you, you ruin it. You’ve wanted John for a long time. Now you have him. And you’re like the dog who caught a car. You don’t know what to do with him, so you’re coming to me. But I’m not who you want.”

“I wanted you long before I wanted John.”

“Did you?” Bitterness crept into his voice. “Did you ever really want me? Because I remember you pawing me when you were high. I remember you seducing me after John said he wasn’t gay. Honestly, I feel like I was just a distraction to you, Sherlock. Something you were playing with until something better came along.”

“No. No, you were …. You made me happy.”

“Yeah, well. You made me confused. You really hurt me, Sherlock.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. If you were, you wouldn’t call me at four in the morning asking for a bloody booty call!”

Sherlock was quiet for a long time. Finally he said, “I’ve treated you atrociously. There’s no excuse for it, though I will say it’s because you confuse me, too. You’re good to me. Better than anyone’s ever been to me and it makes me afraid. I’m afraid that one of these days you’ll see me for what I really am and you won’t want me anymore. John--” Sherlock’s voice was thick, “John knows what I am, and he hates me almost as much as he loves me, and maybe that’s what I deserve.”

“You don’t deserve hatred.”

“Maybe not, but I don’t deserve you.”

Greg swallowed.

“Goodnight, Lestrade.” Sherlock hung up.

Goddamn it. Greg called Sherlock back.

“You’ve reached the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. Don’t bother leaving me a voicemail. Why can’t you people text?”

Fuck. Greg looked at his phone’s glowing display. 4:15. Ugh. He had work tomorrow. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.


	13. He's Not My Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the chapter count has changed. I needed one more to tie up all the lose ends.

“This is open and shut Lestrade,” said Sally. “McFarlane’s bloody thumbprint was in Oldacre’s office. What clearer evidence do you need?”

“I don’t know. Don’t you think it’s a little too convenient? A single perfect thumbprint? If you wanted to frame someone for murder, isn’t that exactly what you’d plant?”

“Who would want to frame McFarlane for murder?”

“I’m not sure. Oldacre himself, maybe. Not the first time we’ve seen someone fake their own death to evade debts. Or Mrs McFarlane. She’s estranged from her son, angry that he works for her abusive ex-fiancee.”

Sally frowned. “I just think you shouldn’t be looking for zebras where there are horses.”

“I know. What can I say? I have a feeling.”

“What does Sherlock say?”

“I haven’t asked him,” Greg admitted.

“What’s going on between you two?”

“Nothing.”

Sally snorted. “You ran off with him and left me with the Abernetty crime scene. Then, you were joined at the hip and making calf eyes at each other for weeks. Now you’re not talking. Sounds like a lovers’ quarrel to me.”

“Donovan,” Greg warned.

“Sorry, sorry, not my business. Though if you had asked me I would have told you you could do better.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t ask you, did I?” Greg’s text alert pinged.

_I checked the blueprints to Oldacre’s house in Hampstead. The dimensions of the library don’t add up. I’m pretty sure he has a panic room.--SH_

Greg showed his phone to Sally. She arched an eyebrow. “SOCO didn’t find it.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not there. Let’s go.”

* * *

The panic room was hidden behind a bookshelf in Oldacre’s library. It had an unmade twin bed and a mini fridge with a microwave on top of it. Greg opened the fridge with a gloved hand. There were two tupperware containers filled with half-eaten food.

“Someone was hiding here. Recently.”

“Oldacre?” asked Sally.

“Yeah. He’s still alive. And he left here recently. Or maybe …” Greg glanced around the room, “he’s still here….”

Singh, the SOCO officer, stared at him incredulously.

Greg knelt down and glanced under the bed. He saw an arm and a leg. He grabbed the leg and pulled, and dragged out an angry and thrashing Jonas Oldacre.

“Well, whatdaya know,” said Greg.

“Get your hands off me,” Oldacre snapped.

“How about you roll over and put yours behind your back.”

Oldacre had a sour expression, but he lay on his stomach and crossed his forearms behind him.

“Jonas Oldacre, you are under arrest. You do not have to say anything,” said Greg, “but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.”

“I’m not saying anything,” said Oldacre.

“Fine,” said Greg.

“You’d better have a bloody good barrister,” said Sally.

“I do.”

Greg hauled Oldacre to his feet. He was an older man, perhaps in his mid sixties, in a wrinkled suit and a dress shirt that had come untucked from around a paunch. He had thinning hair combed over a bald spot on the back of his head.

Greg grabbed Oldacre by the elbow and pulled him towards the door. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

Sally and Signh followed behind him.

* * *

_Did you catch him?--SH_

Greg took another sip of his celebratory pint before texting back. He was out at The Feathers with Sally and the SOCO team.

_Yeah. How’d you know to look at the blueprints?_

_A single bloody thumbprint? Please.--SH_

Greg smiled. _Yeah, I thought that was fishy._

_I knew he had to be alive. And Mycroft said he hadn’t appeared on any CCTV cameras in London. So, he had to be in hiding. I checked to see if his house had any secret rooms. Elementary.--SH_

_Wait, you asked Mycroft for help?_

_It’s not as if I have CCTV access._

_Still. You asked Mycroft. For help. For me._

“You texting Himself?” asked Sally.

“Yeah.”

She rolled her eyes.

Greg switched his phone to vibrate and pocketed it. No more Sherlock tonight. It buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it and finished his drink.

The pub door opened. Greg looked up and saw Hopkins come in, John in tow. She caught his glance from across the room and smiled. Shit. She was coming over.

“Hi Greg!”

Sally scooted down the bench, making room. Fuck.

Greg forced a smile. “Stella! John.”

“Congratulations on the Oldacre collar. I hear he faked his own death?”

“Yeah.”

“Everyone does it now, apparently,” said John. His smile showed just a little too much teeth for Greg’s liking.

“He pinned it on his ex-fiancee’s son, too. I can’t understand why. Kid says he looked up to Oldacre like a father. The ex-fiancee said they were thick as thieves. That she was estranged from her son because of it.”

“Maybe he was just pretending to be friends with her son so he could drive a wedge between him and his mother,” said John.

“For years?” asked Greg, “And then to frame him for murder? That’s pretty damn vindictive.”

“Some people really hold grudges,” said John.

Greg decided he’d better not comment.

“Anyway, congrats to Greg!” said Hopkins. “Next round’s on me.”

The group gave whoops of general approval.

“You know what, I think I’m good,” said Greg. “I’m knackered. Going to make an early night of it.”

“Awww, don’t go Lestrade,” said Singh.

“Sorry. See you lot Monday.” Greg stood up. “Goodnight.”

“You know what, I better go, too,” said John. 

Stella’s brow furrowed. “We just got here.”

“I just remembered I traded shifts with a colleague. Have to get up early.” He stood up. “Goodnight, everyone.”

Sally looked at Greg, looked meaningfully at John, and arched an eyebrow. Greg ignored her.

Greg walked out with a wave, not at all surprised that John was on his heels.

They walked a ways down the street towards Victoria Station.

“Hey,” said John, “So I actually don’t work until afternoon tomorrow. What do you say you and I get a pint over there? He pointed to the Grafton Arms.

“If you’re buying.”

John smiled stiffly. “Sure.”

* * *

Greg let John order two pints, and waited until the waitress had brought them and left before asking, “What’s this about?”

“Sherlock. Well,” John took a sip of his beer, “you and Sherlock.”

Greg scoffed. “There is no ’me and Sherlock.’”

“No? He doesn’t text ’I miss you,’ or call you at four in the morning?”

Greg’s eyebrows lifted into his hairline. “You go through his phone, now?

“Snooping is justified if you find something. And I found out Sherlock lied to me.”

Greg took a sip of his beer. It was bitter. John had ordered some kind of IPA. Greg would have preferred a stout, but John hadn’t asked him.

“You weren’t ’just shagging.’”

“If Sherlock says it was just shagging, it was just shagging.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re only in a relationship if both people say you are, and he says it wasn’t.”

“What about you? You wanted to be in a relationship?”

“I don’t want to be where I’m not wanted.”

“Good. You’re not wanted here.”

“You’re the one who asked me out for a beer, mate.” Greg took another sip of his bitter brew.

“I just wanted to make it perfectly clear to you that Sherlock and I are together. And we’re happy. You need to stay away from him.”

Greg’s jaw clenched. He hated this insinuation that he was a cheater. But at the same time, it was tempting to get John’s goat. “Something tells me that all’s not well in paradise or you wouldn’t be here accusing me of trying to steal your man.”

“We’re fine. And he’s not my man.”

“No?” Greg smirked. “Homophobia’s a hell of a drug.”

“I’m not homophobic. My sister is gay.”

“And you’re bi.”

“I don’t like labels. But I’m with Sherlock.”

“Yeah and who knows? Apart from me and Mrs Hudson?”

John’s nostrils flared. “I believe in keeping my private life private.”

“Like you kept your relationship with Mary private? Because I seem to remember a very big, very public wedding. Sherlock’s not going to like being your dirty secret. He all but publicly declared his love for you while you were getting married to Mary. He doesn’t hide who he is. He doesn’t know how.”

“I’m not asking him to hide. I just need time to get used to our relationship. Sherlock respects that. And I’d appreciate it if you would, too.”

“I won’t out you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m more worried about you interfering with our relationship.”

“And you should be discussing these worries with Sherlock, not me. You’ll note I didn’t text him back.”

“You talked to him though, for a long time.”

“I don’t see how the duration of my phone calls is any of your business.”

“Was he high when he called you?”

“I didn’t drug test him.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. You know you enable him? You and Mycroft.”

“Excuse me? Isn’t that a little bit of the pot criticizing the kettle?”

“I’d have made him flush the drugs. Not babysat him.”

“Maybe I didn’t think it was my place to go over there anymore.”

John nodded. “True. But you should have called me.”

“Why? You’re his boyfriend, not his minder.”

“I’m his partner.”

Greg took another sip of his beer, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “He didn’t seem to be in any danger. If I’d thought he was, I’d have called A&E.”

“A&E? I’m a doctor.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I wouldn’t want to call you, ever think of that?”

John leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Because you’re trying to get with him.”

“No, I’m not. I’m really not. I have too much self respect for that. Sherlock chose you, and I’m not playing second fiddle. But I don’t particularly like you. And I don’t think you’re good for him.”

“Sorry?”

“You beat the shit out of him.”

John’s jaw worked. “He would have stabbed Culverton Smith.”

“That’s not why you kicked him half to death and we both know it.”

“Fine. I was angry with him. But we’ve worked past it.”

“Have you? Because Sherlock seems to think you’ll never forgive him.”

“That what he said?”

“He said that he’ll always be trying to prove himself to you. That’s no way to be in a relationship.”

“So what, now, you’re giving me relationship advice?”

“I care about him. I’ve known Sherlock a long time, before you were ever in the picture, and I want to see him happy. What he wants is you, and I respect that. But if you’re going to be with him, you need to move past all your anger at him for faking his death, for the role he had in Mary’s death. Take it from me. I thought I could forgive my ex-wife for cheating. I took her back. But I couldn’t. I was still hurt, still angry, and it festered, and things were never the same. If you’re with Sherlock, you need to be one hundred percent there with him. Not living in the past.”

“I watched him jump. Do you have any idea what that does to a person?”

“No. But I thought he was dead, too.”

“I thought it was my fault.”

“So did I.”

“I lost my best friend.”

“We can do this all night, John. I was there. I lost him too, I mourned him, too.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t walk in on your engagement dinner dressed as a waiter acting like nothing had ever happened!”

“That was a poor choice, I agree. But it was no reason to hit him.”

“You keep throwing that back at me. You’re so perfect, you’d never hit him. You weren’t there!” John clenched his fist against the table. Greg looked at it, wondered if John was angling for a fight, decided he most likely wasn’t, and took another sip of his beer.

He swallowed the bitterness down. “You should be glad I wasn’t.”

“Sorry, is that a threat?”

“That’s a promise, that if you ever hit him again, I will bring you up on assault charges.”

“Okay. Okay, I guess I deserved that.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you did.” Greg took another sip of his beer.

“Look, I’m sorry that I accused you of cheating. I know you’ve been cheated on and that probably you wouldn’t do it.”

Greg rankled. “Probably?”

“Okay, you wouldn’t cheat with him. But he still said ’I miss you,’ and that means on some level, he wants to cheat with you.

“He was just high, talking bollocks.”

“No. I think he still wants you.”

“You want to know what I told him? That he’s wanted you for so long, that now that he has you, he’s not sure what to do, and he’s scared, so he’s chasing after me in an attempt to ruin it.”

“I can see that, yeah.”

“So don’t let him ruin it.”

“Okay.”

“Talk to him. Admit you snooped and apologize, but tell him how what you found made you feel. He wants you to be happy. He said that. So, tell him what would make you feel secure.”

“I don’t want him talking to you anymore.”

“To be honest, I don’t particularly want to talk to him, either. I need time. I asked him to work with Hopkins. But you can’t tell him who he can and can’t be friends with.”

“No. I know. But everything is just so new and you and he have a past and I need him to just be with me right now.”

“So tell him that.”

“Yeah. I should.”

“Do. And leave me out of it.”

“Yeah. I will. I’m sorry.”

Greg finished his beer. It left a metallic aftertaste in his mouth.

John flagged down the waitress and settled their tab.

“Goodnight, Greg,” said John. “Sorry again. Thanks for the chat.”

Greg shrugged. “Goodnight.”

John stood up and walked out of the pub with a wave.

Greg watched him go. It had been strange, talking to him about Sherlock. He wondered if he’d said too much. If he’d said enough. 

He checked his missed messages. Sherlock, of fucking course.

_John is going to the Feathers with Hopkins.--SH_

Sherlock had tried to warn him. Greg wasn’t sure what to make of that. He ordered a Guinness and drank it by himself, letting it wash the taste of the bitterness away.


	14. You Can Have Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops! A bunch of people have commented that I accidentally left off the beginning of the chapter when I posted. That is fixed now.
> 
> Note there are some new tags including a brief mention of animal abuse, which is in this chapter.

_I’ve left John.--SH_

Greg blinked, scrubbed at his eyes, and blinked again. He’d been having a Saturday morning lie in. And now he’d woken up to this.

_I tried to alert you last night. That he was going to The Feathers with Hopkins. I’m sorry for whatever he said to you--SH_

Greg stared at his phone.

_Before you ask, I’m stone cold sober. John isn’t what I want. You are. I appreciate that I treated you terribly and you will need time to heal before we can get back together. Please tell me when it would be appropriate to pursue you again--SH_

Greg dialed Sherlock.

“Hello.”

Greg’s mind was racing. Of all the messes for Sherlock to make ….“There’s still time to make this right. Go to him now, tell him you made a huge mistake and apologize--”

“I haven’t made a mistake.”

“Yes, yes you have. You’re going to regret this and you’re going to blame me.”

“I’m not going to regret this and I'm not going to blame you. I wasn’t happy with John. I was happy with you. And I told him as much.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

“He was angry. He accused me of sleeping with you behind his back.”

“He didn’t--”

“Hit me? No.”

Oh, thank God.

“But I was ready to defend myself in case he did, and I realized I don’t want to be with anyone where that fear is at the back of my mind.”

And that was the truth, wasn’t it? Greg had been worried that Sherlock wasn’t seeing clearly, that he was being self-destructive, that John was what he really wanted. But John was no good for him. And maybe Sherlock had finally started to see that. Maybe he was, in fact, waking up.

“No, no you’re right. No one should ever have to worry about that. You deserve better.”

“I said it before, that I don’t deserve you. But I hope you’ll have me, all the same.”

“Sherlock ….”

“I know, you need time.”

“Yeah. I do.”

“How much?”

“Sherlock!” He threw up his hand.

“What?”

“You can’t ask me that. I don’t know, okay?”

“Fine. But I want you back. Need you back.”

“Look, I’m not saying we can’t ever get back together, just … I need you to convince me you won’t hurt me again.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“What am I supposed to do, then?”

“You’re a genius. Figure it out.”

“For the last time, Lestrade, I’m not a psychic. You have to give me something to work with.”

Greg sighed. He remembered what he’d told John. _Tell him what would make you feel secure._ “I won’t share you again. Not with John. Not with anyone. I was never comfortable with that and I said I was and I regretted it. If you’re with me, you’re with _me_ , Sherlock. I’ll do whatever I can to keep you happy. But I don’t want you with anyone else.”

“Okay. I can do that. If that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want.” Greg thought a moment. “And no more of this secret relationship crap. I don’t want to sneak around. I want us to be out.”

Sherlock was quiet. This was it. Greg had asked for too much, and it was over before it had begun again.

“I’ve been working with Hopkins since we broke up. It’s … fine. I can continue to work with her instead of you.”

“You’d do that. For me?”

“I miss you, Lestrade. I didn’t realize how much until you were gone. And now ….”

“I missed you, too. I think about you all the time. I was stupidly jealous of John.” At that meeting at the Grafton Arms, it’d been all he could do not to hurl that bitter beer in John’s face.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Yeah, but you did. I keep thinking that you’ll do it again, that you’ll go back to him.”

“I don’t think he’d have me back even if I wanted him. That bridge is pretty thoroughly burned, now.”

“I’m sorry. I know your friendship meant a lot to you.”

“It did. But it changed. Things were never the same after I came back. He resented me for not trusting him with my secret. And it got worse after Mary died. He blamed me for her death. And then I thought, after Sherrinford, that things were better, but once we were together, I could feel it, the jealousy, the resentment. He didn’t want to be with me; he wanted to have me. And I … I think I was trying to recapture some version of John Watson that doesn’t exist anymore.”

“I feel bad. I kept pushing you back towards him. Even though I thought he was no good for you. I was so sure he was what you wanted.”

“And you wanted what was best for me. Even if it was painful for you.”

“Yeah.”

“You love me.”

Surprisingly, the deduction didn’t hurt, didn’t make him feel laid bare. It was good, for Sherlock to know. “Yeah, I do. I have for some time.”

“I love you, too.”

“You don’t have to say it just because I did.”

“I’m saying it because I mean it.”

“Last week, you were asking me how to tell if you love someone. Now you’re convinced you love me.”

“I was confused. I was looking for a definition of love which would mean I loved John. Because I thought I should love him. But I don’t. Maybe I did once, but not anymore.”

“That must have hurt, to realize.”

“Maybe it would have if I hadn’t realized I was in love with you at the same time.”

“Now you’re ‘in love,’ huh?”

“Yes. When can I see you again?”

Greg sighed. “Not yet. I’m sorry, Sherlock. Give me… I don’t know. A few days at least. I need to get used to the idea of you coming back.”

“Okay. I can do that. No contact for three days.”

“It doesn’t have to be no contact. Talking is fine. In fact, I’d like to talk to you. About what this all means. Where we’re going. But I’m not ready to see you, yet.”

“You want me to call.”

“Or text. Whatever.”

“I’ll call you.”

“I’d like that.”

* * *

“Why him?” Greg asked Oldacre. They were seated in one of the interrogation rooms at NSY, staring at one another from across opposite sides of a metal table.

“Who?”

“McFarlane.”

Oldacre smiled. It didn’t touch his eyes. It gave an unsettling look to his doughy face.

“Revenge.”

“Against who?”

“Marie, of course.”

“Why her? After all these years? Why not, I don’t know, your ex wife?”

“My ex wife was a pig. Marie was special.”

“How so?”

“Her father abused the whole family, did you know that? But Marie was the scapegoat. Took the brunt of it. And never raised a hand in her own defense. She was the same with me. Meek. Submissive. And then one day, she up and grows a spine.”

“What was the breaking point?”

Oldacre’s lip quirked. “A fucking cat.”

“A cat?”

“She brought home a stray kitten, from the shelter. Said she wanted a pet for her little boy. I told her to take the thing straight back. She refused. So I slammed it into a wall. Snapped it’s wee neck.” His voice was completely flat.

The hairs lifted at the back of Greg’s neck.

“What did she do?”

“She gave me back my ring. Said she didn’t want her kid growing up in that ‘kind of environment.’”

Greg thought that Marie McFarlane had dodged a bullet for sure.

“Okay, but you could have pinned the murder on her. Why her son?”

Oldacre shrugged. “She never told him, did you know that? About the cat. Tried to protect him. I wanted to show her she couldn’t.”

* * *

Greg’s salami sandwich tasted like cardboard. He kept thinking about Oldacre, the expressionless tone of his voice when he’d casually described killing the cat. Greg had seen a lot of cruelty in his days as a copper, but he wasn’t numb to it. The conversation had put him off his lunch.

His phone pinged. He smiled and set his sandwich down on his desk. Sherlock.

_So, Sherlock dumped me. I bet you knew that already. I bet you knew he was planning on leaving me when you gave me the pep talk Friday night._

Greg winced. John.

_I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was planning on ending the relationship when I talked to you. He did tell me this morning that it was over._

_Because he wants to get back with you, right?_ _In retrospect, it’s obvious you two were fucking the whole time we were together. I thought maybe he was getting off with you to try and make me jealous, but I guess it was the other way around._

_I think Sherlock was confused and didn’t know what he wanted. I’m sorry that you got hurt._

_Bollocks. Don’t tell me how sorry you are. I’m sure you’re gloating that you won. Some prize. I’m sure he’ll cheat on you, too._

_I’m not a cheater. I promise you we weren’t sleeping together._

_I don’t believe that. But even if you weren’t, you were still sniffing around each other. You were still having an affair, just without the sex._

Greg couldn’t resist. _You mean like you did with Sherlock’s sister?_

_You don't know anything about me or my marriage. The whole thing was a lie. My wife was an assassin who lied to me. And the woman I cheated on her with was a fucking psychopath who lied to me, too. And Sherlock lied to me. And you lied to me. Everyone fucking lies to me._

_I never lied to you, John._

_Anyway, you can have him. And good riddance to you both. I hope you make each other miserable._

Greg decided not to dignify that comment with a response. He took another bite of his sandwich. It tasted a little better.

* * *

_I miss you--SH_

Greg smiled. _I miss you, too._

_Is it a good time to call?--SH_

_Sure._

“Hello.” Sherlock purred. It was his seductive voice. He wanted something. Probably for Greg to relent and let him come over for sex. That was not happening. 

“Hello to you, too.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Nothing. Sitting on my sofa. Watching the Beeb.” He grabbed the remote and switched the telly off. It was bloody depressing anyway.

“Do you want to know what I’m doing?”

Having a wank, by the sound of his voice. “Trying to convince me to let you come over?”

“Lestrade, I’m hurt.” Greg could hear the pout in Sherlock’s voice. “We agreed three days. But I thought I might interest you in talking about what you want to do to me when you see me again.”

This seemed somewhat against the spirit of Greg’s stipulation that they not see each other if not the letter. But his dick was intrigued. He _had_ been thinking about what he’d like to do with Sherlock when he saw him next, and the idea of talking that through with him, possibly with his hand in his pants, was suddenly very hot.

“Well. I think when you see me again, you’re going to have to work to get back into my good graces.”

“And however will I do that, Inspector?” Sherlock’s syrupy baritone was making Greg’s cock twitch.

“I’m thinking you’ll have to do some of that work on your knees. And maybe on your hands and knees.”

“That can be arranged.”

“You know, I’ve always wanted you in a ring gag?”

“Interesting. You know my ability to perform felatio will be hampered significantly.”

“I know. It’s not about that. I just want for you to… take it. Have no choice but to take it.”

“Do you want to make me gag on your cock, Inspector? Want to fuck my throat until there are tears in my eyes?”

That was harsher than Greg had imagined, but he wasn’t surprised that Sherlock’s brain went there. The image was surprisingly hot. “Yeah. I want you to choke on it. I want to pull your hair and fuck your throat and come all over your face.” Greg’s voice was hoarse. His cock was starting to throb.

“Yes, please. I want to take you in and swallow you down. I want to feel you on my face. I want to be yours.”

“Yeah, about that. I’d like… I’d like to put a collar on you.”

The line was quiet for a moment. Finally Sherlock said, “Are you aware of the significance of collars in BDSM circles?”

“Sort of? I know that they mean someone is owned.”

“And that’s what you want? For everyone to know I’m yours?”

_I’m going to carve my initials in your shoulder. And then everyone will know you’re mine._

Greg could almost feel the point of Sherlock’s blade in his skin. It only made him harder.

“I don’t know? I don’t want to like … bring you to clubs and show you off, or anything. But when we’re together, yeah, I’d like to know you’re mine.”

“A collar is also a sign of commitment. Many times those who are in 24/7 BDSM relationships use collars to signify their commitment to each other and to the lifestyle.”

“I’m not asking for anything like that. I don’t want you to submit to me all the time. But I do want a commitment. I’m too old to play games, Sherlock. If you say you love me, that you want to get back together with me, then I want for us to be serious. I want you for the long haul.”

“I want that too, Lestrade.”

“Why are you still calling me ‘Lestrade’? I know you know my name.”

“Because you told me to.”

Greg remembered.

_Maybe it’s best if you went back to ‘Lestrade.’_

“I’m sorry. I was angry. You can call me ‘Greg’ again if you want.”

“Greg. I want to be yours. I want you to collar me.”

“I want that too. Next time I see you, I want you to come to mine. You will wear your coat and shoes and nothing else. There will be a butt plug in your arse and a ring gag in your pocket.”

“Yes. I’ll do anything you ask.” 

Greg leaned back into the sofa. He closed his eyes. He unbuttoned his trousers and pulled down his zip, palming himself through his pants. “When you arrive, you will kneel at my feet. You will beg me to forgive you and take you back. You will beg me to use your pretty mouth. I will put the ring gag on you, and I will fuck you until you drool and choke, until I come all over that pretty face.”

“Please.”

“If you satisfy me, if you convince me that you’re sorry, that you will be good from now on, if you let me use you however I please, if you obey every command I give you without complaint, then you will earn your collar.”

“I will do it. I will earn it.” Sherlock’s voice was ragged.

“Are you hard?” 

“Yes.”

“Hard for me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to come?”

Sherlock gasped. “God, yes.”

“Good. You’re forbidden to come until I see you again. You will come when I bring you off, and not before. Are we clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, Greg.”

Greg hung up the phone. His cock jumped under his hand. He was rock hard. He decided if Sherlock were going to wait, he might as well wait, too. Coming on his face was going to be that much sweeter.


	15. Forgive Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it, folks. Thank you so much for reading, especially those people who read and cheered me on in the comments while I was posting.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, looking a bit odd with his coat collar popped without his usual scarf. Greg dropped his gaze to the floor and saw that Sherlock was wearing dress shoes without socks. His throat went dry.

“Come in,” he said, opening the door. Sherlock walked through it, and Greg shut the door behind him. His heart was pounding.

“Give me your coat.”

Sherlock unbuttoned it and handed it to him. He was completely naked underneath, except for the shoes.

“Take those off, too.”

Sherlock dropped down to his knees and unlaced them, then handed them to Greg. Greg put the shoes on the rack and hung Sherlock’s coat in the cupboard, ignoring Sherlock himself. He reached into the coat’s right pocket, fingers closing around leather and metal. He wrapped the strap of the ring gag around his wrist. Then he turned around.

“Straighten up and look me in the eyes.”

Sherlock drew himself up, chest back, palms in his lap. His eyes met Greg’s. They were sharply focused.

“Tell me you’re sorry.”

Sherlock licked his lips. “Sir, I--”

“Greg.”

Sherlock began again. “Greg, I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you, but I did, and I can’t take it back.”

“Go on.”

“I never properly appreciated you. You were so good to me. And I took you for granted. Please forgive me.”

“I’m not sure you deserve my forgiveness.”

“I don’t. You’re right, I shouldn’t have asked for it.”

“In fact, I think you deserve to be punished.”

“Punish me however you see fit, sir--Greg.”

Greg slapped him. Not hard. Just enough to get his attention.

“Why is it you can’t seem to remember my name?”

“I’m sorry. Force of habit.”

“Since your mouth can’t seem to form one simple syllable, I’m going to put it to better use.”

“Please. Use my mouth, Greg.”

“Better.”

He took one strap of the ring gag in each hand and unfolded it. Four metal prongs were attached to the edges of the large ring. They looked wicked. “Open.”

Sherlock obediently parted his jaws.

Greg slipped the ring behind Sherlock's teeth, letting the prongs settle against his cheeks. Then he fastened the buckle behind Sherlock’s head. He walked behind him, unfastened the handcuffs from his belt, and gathered Sherlock’s wrists behind him, locking them in place.

“Don’t struggle.” Greg finished his walk around Sherlock, surveying him. His gray eyes were very wide, as was his mouth around the gag. Greg lifted his chin, turning Sherlock’s face up. Damn, he was so fucking hot. His cock was thickening in his pants.

“Stick out your tongue.”

Sherlock stuck his tongue through the ring, placing it over his bottom lip. Greg reached into his mouth and placed a finger on his tongue. It was hot and wet. Something about knowing that Sherlock couldn’t bite him was just so thoroughly hot. He pressed his finger further back, pushing the tongue down. It moved as Sherlock swallowed.

Greg retracted his hand and unzipped his flies. He brought his trousers down and took his cock out. He was already half hard. He gave himself a few quick strokes and then grabbed a hold of Sherlock’s curls and thrust his cock through the ring.

Sherlock knelt meekly and _took it_ , and wasn’t that perfect. Greg thrust his hips leisurely, not too deep, sliding across Sherlock’s tongue and into his forced open mouth. He pulled out to look down at him. Drool was already beginning to drip down his chin. Fuck. He thrust again, this time a little harder, a little deeper, holding Sherlock’s head still as he pushed into him. After a few moments, he switched and stood still and moved Sherlock’s head up and down over his cock. That was good, too. A little lazier. But this wasn’t what he really wanted.

“I’m going to fuck your throat now.” Greg pushed Sherlock’s head down until his nose met his groin.

Sherlock choked briefly, then swallowed, taking Greg deeper. Greg held his head tight. God, but he felt so fucking powerful. Sherlock’s very breath was under his control. He held him a few seconds more, then pulled back. A long string of drool connected Greg’s cock and Sherlock’s tongue.

“Breathe.”

Sherlock gasped.

Greg let him get in a good breath, then pushed him down again, feeling him struggle, gag, swallow, then take Greg to the base again.

Greg held Sherlock’s head with both hands, holding him still while he thrust, hard and deep. Sherlock coughed and choked around his cock occasionally but was unable to resist. He wasn’t able to really suck, either, and it didn’t feel as good as a blowjob where Sherlock was in control. But he hadn’t come for days, and the image of Sherlock, mouth forced open, drooling, on his knees, more than made up for the lack of physical stimulation. And he did get physical stimulation when he fucked him deep and the muscles of Sherlock’s throat tightened around his cock.

Greg continued thrusting, ignoring the gagging sounds, chasing his orgasm. Pure determination drove his hips as he rammed his cock down Sherlock’s throat. He wondered idly if it would bruise. Sherlock choked again, and for a split second Greg worried he might vomit. He pulled out and back and looked at him. His eyes were watering, and drool coated his chin.

“God, you’re beautiful. So fucking beautiful.” He jerked his own cock, watching Sherlock; he was close now. He slipped his dick back between Sherlock’s teeth and thrust once, twice, and then he began to ejaculate down Sherlock’s throat. He pulled back so that he could spray Sherlock’s face with hot come, streaking his face and hair, trying unsuccessfully to avoid his eyes. Sherlock blinked hard, eyes watering, and looked up at Greg. Come filled his opened mouth, thick and white. Greg placed two fingers in Sherlock’s mouth and painted a clean spot on his cheek.

“Thank you. That was good. You were good.” He stroked Sherlock’s curls. Gradually, Greg’s breathing returned to normal. Fuck. But he’d wanted that for so long. And Sherlock had known, and had given it to him.

Greg unbuckled the strap from behind Sherlock’s head, removing the gag. Sherlock swallowed a mouthful of drool and come, then worked his jaw, which Greg imagined was probably aching. He walked behind Sherlock and unlocked the handcuffs, rubbing Sherlock’s wrists. They were slightly reddened, but not abraded. Greg helped him up off his knees and led him into the loo. He wet a flannel and cleaned Sherlock’s face. His hair was something of a lost cause. Greg stepped into the shower, turned it on, and motioned for Sherlock to come in with him.

Sherlock stepped in. His cock was still half-hard and hung heavy between his legs. Greg reached out and stroked it. “Do you want to come, love?”

“Yes, Greg.”

“Brace yourself against the wall.”

Sherlock placed his hands on the wall and spread his legs. Greg could see the stem of a metal plug between his arse cheeks. He lubed his fingers with hair conditioner and removed the plug from Sherlock’s arse, sliding his fingers in place.

Sherlock bit back a moan.

“Don’t hold back. I want to hear you.”

Greg crooked his fingers, finding the swollen lump of Sherlock’s prostate. He traced slow circles over it, applying firm but gentle pressure. Sherlock keened. Greg stroked his cock with his other hand, trapping Sherlock between the push of fingers inside him and the pull of his foreskin over his glans. Sherlock rocked his hips, then hesitated and went still.

“You can move,” said Greg. “But you can’t come. Not until I say.”

Sherlock nodded.

Greg continued to stroke and caress, ruthlessly stimulating Sherlock. Sherlock’s hips stuttered, and he groaned.

“Please, Greg. I’m so close. I can’t ….”

“You can,” said Greg. “You will.” He ran his thumb over the slit of Sherlock’s cock. Pre-come was accumulating at the tip. He dropped his hand lower, fondling Sherlock’s bollocks. They were high and tight. He dropped Sherlock’s cock and focused just on his prostate.

“Please, Greg. Please, can I come?”

“Tell me you’re sorry again.”

“I’m sorry, Greg. I’m so sorry. I hurt you and I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t deserve to come, either.” Greg pulled his fingers free from Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock slumped against the shower wall.

Greg waited a few moments for Sherlock to come down off the ledge, then slid the stainless steel plug back into his arse. It was a heavy thing, angled to stimulate the prostate. Sherlock shuddered. Greg smirked, knowing he was in agony.

Greg lathered his hands with shampoo and washed the come out of Sherlock’s hair, massaging his scalp. Then he put a generous amount of conditioner on Sherlock’s curls and combed through them with his fingers. Sherlock stood still and let Greg tend to him, even though he was sure that Sherlock used fancier products when he was at home and that probably his curls were going to be overly fluffy.

Greg shut the shower off and led Sherlock out onto the matt. He grabbed a fresh towel and dried him off, first his body, then his hair, which was dripping down onto his shoulders. Probably he was cold. His nipples were hard, and goosebumps pebbled his skin. Too bad. Greg wanted him naked. He was cold as well, though. He took his dressing gown off the hook on the backside of the door and wrapped it around himself.

“Did you bring your phone?” Greg asked.

“Yes. In my coat.”

“Get it.”

Sherlock walked barefoot into the foyer and found his phone in the inner pocket of his coat. He withdrew it and looked at Greg, arching an eyebrow.

“Call your mother.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “My mother. Greg, I don’t know what you’re intending. But if you try to … stimulate me … she will deduce it. I can’t hide it from her.”

Greg smirked. “You’re to leave the plug in place, but I won’t stimulate you apart from that. You’re going to call your mother, and you’re going to tell her that you have a new boyfriend and you want her to meet him.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. Call your mother. Now. Or use your safeword.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. For a moment Greg thought he would protest, but he opened his contacts and dialed.

“Put her on speaker.”

Sherlock glowered but hit the button. “Hello, Mummy.”

“Sherlock! Whatever can be the occasion. You so rarely call these days. Not that I’m complaining. I never do. But really, it’s a treat to hear from you. Unless of course something terrible has happened.”

“No. No, quite the opposite.”

“Oh?”

“I have…. Good news.”

“You’re seeing someone.”

Greg smirked.

“Yes, actually--”

“That doctor fellow. John Watson? Such a nice man.”

Sherlock flinched. Greg was spiraling. This had been a terrible idea. What had he been thinking?

“No, Mummy. I’m seeing Greg Lestrade. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. You may have seen his name in the papers.”

“That man who takes the credit for all your cases?”

Greg bit his lip.

The barest hint of a smile flickered over Sherlock’s face.

“I’ve asked him to do that, Mummy. You know I don’t care about getting credit.”

“Still. It doesn’t seem right, you never being acknowledged. How long have you been seeing him?”

“A few months.” “That long! When were you going to say something?”

“Once we got serious.”

“Oh, so it’s _serious_.” Her voice lilted into a singsong.

“Yes. We’re… very serious. I want you to meet him.”

“Oh, Sherlock! When?”

“Um. As soon as would be convenient.”

“How about you come round for dinner next Friday?”

Sherlock looked at Greg, who nodded.

“That sounds fine.”

“What about your brother. Shouldn’t we invite Mykie?”

“No. No, do not invite Mycroft.”

“Seems to me like it would be rude not to. We’ll have a nice family dinner.”

“It’s pointless. Mycroft already knows him.”

“Your father will be so excited to meet your young man and to have everyone here together.”

“You know Mycroft won’t come.”

“He will if I ask him.”

“Please don’t.”

“Honestly, I don’t know why you and Mykie can’t get along. You’re brothers. It will be good for you to see him.”

“Fine, ask him. But he’ll say no.”

“I’m sure he won’t.”

“Anyway, Mummy, I really must be going.”

“Oh? Is your gentleman over?”

“I’m at his.”

“Oh. That’s wonderful. I won’t be keeping you from him, then.”

Sherlock’s cheeks were pink. “Goodnight, Mummy.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” 

He hung up the phone, and looked up at Greg, eyes flashing. “There. Are you satisfied?”

Greg grinned. “Completely.” He held out his hand. Sherlock scowled but handed over his phone, which Greg put in the pocket of his dressing gown. Then he swept Sherlock into his arms and kissed him, ruffling his hair. “Come,” he released him and held out his hand. Sherlock took it and let Greg lead him to the bedroom.

“I think,” said Greg, walking to the nightstand and opening the top drawer, “that you have earned this.” He pulled out a wide, black and purple posture collar shaped to fit the contours of a man’s neck and jaw. Greg had purchased it from Regulation, a specialty shop he would definitely be returning to with Sherlock.

“Kneel.”

Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of Greg. Greg slipped the collar around his neck. The purple leather was firm and unyielding belting hide, and looked very fetching next to Sherlock’s pale skin. The buckle was black, and could accommodate a padlock, though for now Greg had left it be. He fastened it around Sherlock’s neck. It held his long neck high. Lovely. Greg bent down and kissed Sherlock’s forehead, then twined his fingers in the D ring at the front of the collar and lifted Sherlock’s head so he could kiss him. Sherlock yielded completely to him, his mouth open and soft.

“You are beautiful,” said Greg. “Beautiful and mine. Tell me.”

“I’m yours.”

Greg stood up and lifted Sherlock to his feet. He gestured towards the bed. “Hands and knees.”

Sherlock climbed up onto the bed and got onto all fours. Greg climbed on to the bed and knelt behind him. He drew his hand back and spanked Sherlock’s left buttock.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed in Greg’s pocket.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Mycroft. Ignore it. Please.”

Greg took the phone out of his pocket and set it on the nightstand. It continued to vibrate. Greg’s own phone rang on the charger.

He picked it up and looked at it.

_Incoming call from Mycroft Holmes._

“Please,” said Sherlock.

“Hello?”

“Inspector. Thank you for taking my call. I was concerned you might be… indisposed.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“I understand that congratulations are in order.”

“They are, thank you.”

“I would request, however, that you refrain from involving me-- _or my mother_ \--in your sex games in future. Forcing Sherlock to go to dinner with our parents was, I admit, a rather ingenious punishment, and he no doubt deserved it. Unfortunately for you, Mummy is extraordinarily perceptive and deduced what you were up to, which means I have just been forced to have an innuendo-laden conversation about my brother’s sex life _with my mother_. Also I am being forced to attend,” Greg could hear his sneer, “‘family dinner’ next Friday.”

Greg suspected he ought to be mortified. But Mycroft’s over the top indignation was so ridiculous he struggled not to laugh. “I truly apologize for that. I had no idea--”

“Sherlock ought to have warned you.”

“He did, I didn’t listen.” “And he ought to have requested I not be invited.”

“He did. Your mother insisted.”

“No doubt. In any case, you now owe me a rather large favor, which I will be collecting at my convenience. Do we have an understanding?”

“Of course,” said Greg, suppressing a grin. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you.”

“Inconvenienced! Brexit is an inconvenience. This is a catastrophe.”

Greg swallowed a chuckle. “Truly I’m sorry. And if it makes you feel better, Sherlock is sorry, too.“ Greg eyed him. He was sitting up on the bed, cheeks high with color.

As he should be.” Mycroft sounded somewhat mollified. “Have a… pleasant evening.”

“Thank you.” Greg smiled at Sherlock. “I will.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Goodnight, Inspector.”

“’Night, Mycroft. See you next Friday.” He had to rub it in, just a little.

“Hopefully not. I’m sure some crisis or another will emerge which will prevent my attendance.”

“I guess I’ll hope for a crisis, then.”

“Do.”

“Until whenever I see you, then. Goodnight.” Greg hung up the phone.

“Well,” Sherlock took a shaking breath. “If your goal was to thoroughly humiliate me in front of my family, you have succeeded.”

Some of Greg’s good humor dissipated. “I’m sorry. That was not actually my goal. I admit I wanted to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry if I went too far. I just wanted you to acknowledge our relationship publically. I do actually want to meet your parents.”

“Well, you will. And they will know that I submit to you.”

“Just like Wiggins and Mycroft know I submit to you.”

Sherlock dropped his eyes. “Fine. I suppose I deserved it. It’s fair.”

“Look, Sherlock. If you’re truly upset, I apologize. It was not my intention to humiliate you. But I really don’t think it’s as bad as you think. You told me Mycroft already knew about your sex dungeon.”

“He does,” Sherlock admitted. “But Mummy--”

“If she figured it out on the phone, she already knew.”

Sherlock sighed. “I suppose. It was just… very uncomfortable.”

“I’m sorry.” Greg crossed over to the bed and stroked Sherlock’s hair. It had dried very fluffy and the curls were undefined and wild, as he’d expected. “Forgive me?”

“Tonight was supposed to be about me begging for your forgiveness.”

“And you have it. I think you’ve begged enough.” Greg kissed Sherlock’s forehead. “I’m serious. I don’t want us to be like you and John. Yes, you hurt me, but that’s in the past now. I don’t want you to think you have to constantly work to make it up to me.”

“Thank you. That’s why I came back to you. You forgave me for jumping. And for getting high at your crime scenes. And for being… myself around SOCO. You’ve never held any of it against me.”

“We all make mistakes, Sherlock. But you’re a good man.”

“So are you. I told John that when he was looking for a best man. That you were a man, and good at it.”

Greg laughed. He held Sherlock tight and kissed the top of his forehead. Then he moved down, kissing his forehead, his nose, his lips. He twined his finger through the D ring on the front of Sherlock’s collar. “I hope I haven’t completely ruined the mood.”

Sherlock murmured against Greg’s mouth, “I think you did, but I could be persuaded back into it….”

Greg pulled at the collar with his right hand and cradled Sherlock’s head with his left, kissing him deeply and easing him onto his back. He climbed on top of him and spread Sherlock’s legs with his knees.

Sherlock hummed against his mouth. Greg released his collar and trailed his hand down Sherlock’s body, pausing to tweak his nipples before encircling his limp cock. He caressed it as he kissed Sherlock until it began to plump in his hand.

“There you are,” he murmured. He trailed kisses down Sherlock’s body and took the head of his half-hard cock into his mouth. Sherlock let out a sigh and arched into Greg. Greg reached between his open legs and found the stem of the butt plug and pulled. Sherlock gasped.

Greg set the butt plug on the bed and inserted two fingers into Sherlock’s pliant body, sucking his cock into his mouth as he stirred him. His own cock was hardening. He rutted against the sheets.

“Oh….” Sherlock moaned. “Oh, Greg.”

Greg swirled his tongue around Sherlock’s frenulum and then let Sherlock’s cock fall from his mouth. “I want to take you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock was breathless. “Please, yes.”

Greg climbed up Sherlock’s body and kissed him, pulling his hair back to arch his neck and show off that fabulous collar. He kissed the leather, scenting the rich earthiness of it, and then kissed Sherlock’s jaw and ear, sucking the lobe and licking around the shell. Sherlock moaned.

“Soon, pretty,” Greg rolled away and opened the nightstand drawer, fumbling for condoms. He rolled one on hastily and grabbed the bottle of lube. Sherlock watched him, eyes wide, and opened his legs.

Greg kneed Sherlock’s legs still wider and poured lube over Sherlock’s hole. He threw the bottle on the bed and lined up his cock with his hand.

“Please,” said Sherlock.

Greg pressed home in a single, swift stroke.

“Fuck,” said Sherlock. “Fuck, Greg.”

Greg lay across Sherlock’s torso and sent his arms snaking across the sheets until he found Sherlock’s hands. He folded them in his, interlacing their fingers, and held Sherlock down, releasing his full body weight as he rocked into him.

“You’re mine,” he said. “All mine.”

“Yours,” Sherlock agreed. “All yours.” He wrapped his legs tight around Greg.

Greg rolled his hips in a slow, steady rhythm. He kept at it for several minutes, until his pleasure started to build in the tips of his curled toes and the back of his taut calves. “Are you close?” he asked Sherlock.

“Not yet.”

“Work for it,” said Greg. “Come for me.”

Sherlock nodded, his face scrunching in concentration, and began to buck against Greg, meeting him thrust for thrust. Greg drove into him, pressing his belly against Sherlock’s hard cock, which was leaking precum over his stomach. He squeezed Sherlock’s fingers hard, pressing his body into the bed.

“Oh,” said Sherlock. “Oh Greg, I’m close.”

“Do it,” Greg demanded.

Sherlock’s legs tightened around Greg’s back, and his inner walls tightened around Greg’s cock. He squinted his eyes shut, and his mouth opened into a wide ‘O,’ as he came silently, shuddering under Greg.

Greg thrust hard, his rhythm becoming erratic, and then he too, tumbled after Sherlock.

Greg slumped against Sherlock’s chest. “Oh, that was… you were….” He let go of Sherlock’s hands and clasped his face. “Perfect. You were perfect.”

Sherlock smiled. “I know.”

“Arse.” Greg kissed Sherlock’s nose. Then he rolled onto his back, looking up at the ceiling. God, but he wanted a cigarette. Then he realized that this was his place and he actually had cigarettes.

“Don’t,” said Sherlock.

He sighed. “You’re sure you’re not a psychic?”

“We just had sex. It’s obvious you’re thinking about cigarettes.”

“What are you thinking about?” asked Greg.

“All the years we wasted dancing around each other when we could have had this.”

“Since when were we dancing around each other? I thought I was just slobbering after you.” Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow. “Surely you recall me throwing myself at you in 1999.”

“Vividly. But I didn’t think you were serious. I thought you were just, I don’t know, toying with me.”

“No. Never. I wanted you, even then, but you were married. It took me close to two years to work up the courage to ask you.”

“Really?”

Sherlock rolled over. “Why are you so surprised?”

“I don’t know. I just… You were young, brilliant, beautiful. What could you want with an old copper like me?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “You were my hero, Greg. You believed in me when no one else did. I thought you knew that.”

“I thought you said that heroes didn’t exist.”

“I said a lot of tosh and bollocks.”

Greg reached for Sherlock, stroking his fluffy hair. “You were my hero, too, you know. I always admired you. Wished I could solve the cases, the way you did.”

“You do solve cases.”

“Not like you.”

“Well, you’ll have to solve them on your own, now.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah. You’ll be with Hopkins.”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure that’s okay with you?”

Sherlock’s eyes locked on his. “I’d rather have you than your cases.”

“Okay.” Greg smiled. “I’d rather be your partner than your hero.”

Sherlock nodded. “Same.”

“No more heroes anymore,” said Greg.

“No more heroes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to AllTheThings for her generous donation to Fandom Trumps Hate.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to the wonderful AllTheThings, who generously donated to RAINN for Fandom Trumps Hate 2019. She requested Sherstrade and BDSM. This is actually more of a Greg character study in which Sherlock and Greg happen to explore BDSM together, but I hope you like it.
> 
> Much love and thanks always to my betas Prurient_curiosity and Iwantthatcoat.


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